"Ay, the Gloria. It is well thought on," quoth Anthony; "I have heard them tell in our country how it was his mother's favourite. He will love the strains. As I have said, she was a woman sainted--Jeanne the Queen!" "Hum," said Jean-aux-Choux, "that's as may be. At all events, her son, the Bearnais, was born without any halo to speak of." "The prayers of a good mother are never wholly lost," said Anthony sententiously. "Then they are sometimes a long while mislaid," muttered Jean. "Shame on you, that have known John Calvin in your youth," said Anthony, "to speak as the unbelieving. Have you forgotten that God works slowly, and that with Him one day is as a thousand years?" "Aye," said the incorrigible Jean, arguing the matter with Scots persistency, "but the Bearnais takes a good deal out of himself. He is little likely to last so long as that. However, let us do the best we can--sing!" So they sang the famous Huguenot verses made in the desert by Louis-of-the-Hermitage. "Or soit au Père tout puissant, Qui règne au ciel resplendissant, Gloire et magnificence!" The Bearnais turned in his sleep, muttering restlessly. "Why cannot they sing their psalms at proper hours," he grumbled, "as before a battle or on Sunday, leaving me to sleep now when I am weary and must ride far on the morrow?" The psalm went on. Sleepily, the King searched for a boot to throw in the direction of the disturbance, possibly under the impression that his sentinels were chanting at their posts--a habit which, though laudable in itself, he had been compelled to forbid from a military point of view. The Bearnais discovered, by means of a spur which scratched him sharply, that his boots were on his feet. He muttered yet more loudly. "His morning prayers," said Anthony in Jean's ear; "his mother, Jeanne the Queen, was ever like that. She waked with blessing on her lip--so also her son." "I doubt," said Jean-aux-Choux. "Sing--gabble less concerning the Anointed of God," commanded Anthony Arpajon. And they sang the second time. "In Sion's city God is known, For her defence He holds Him ready, Though banded kings attack at dawn, God's rock-bound fortress standeth steady." This time the Bearnais stood up on his feet, broadly awake. He did not, as Jean-aux-Choux had foretold, thrust a sword behind the arras. Instead, he picked up the painted miniature on which the little circle of light was falling. He pressed it a moment to his lips, and then, with the click of a small chain clasping, it was about his neck and over his heart, hidden by his mailed shirt. "His mother's picture--even from here methinks I recognise the features," asserted the faithful Anthony. "Most touching!" interjected Jean-aux-Choux. "It astonishes you," said Anthony Arpajon, "but that is because you are a stranger----" "And ye would take me in," muttered Jean under his breath. "But in our country of Bearn we all worship our mothers--with us it is a cult."