leaders of men, pioneers of learning. Carved into these ancient houses in Beauvais are crests and mottoes which are the pride of these descendants now scattered over Europe. Such is the village of Beauvais, asleep for many years, the home of peasants chiefly, mountaineers and tenders of cattle, still with the fighting spirit in them, but dormant, lacking the necessity. A fair place, but to the exile, only through a veil does the fairest land reveal its beauty. Its sunlit hills, its green pastures, the silver sheen of its streams, the blue of its sky, he will see through a mist of regret, through tears perchance. No beauty can do away with the fact that it is only a land of exile, to be endured and made the best of for a while, never to be really loved. There is coming an hour in which he may return home, and he is forever looking forward, counting the days. The present must be lived, but reality lies in the future.

The Marquise de Rovère, brilliant, witty, proud as any woman in France, daughter of ancestors famous during the time of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louis, had in the long past a forbear who was lord of this château of Beauvais. Since then there had been other lords with whom she had nothing to do, but her grandfather having grown rich, unscrupulously, it was said, bought Beauvais, restored it, added to it and tried to forget that it had ever passed out of the hands of his ancestors. In due time his granddaughter inherited it, and after that terrible day at Versailles when the mob had stormed the palace, when many of the nobility foresaw disaster and made haste to flee from it into voluntary exile, what better place could the Marquise choose than this château of Beauvais? Hither she had come with her niece Jeanne St. Clair, and others had followed. In Paris the Marquise had been the center of a brilliant coterie, she would still be a center in Beauvais and the château should be open to every emigré of distinction.

So it came to pass that sleepy Beauvais had suddenly stretched itself and aroused from slumber. The Marquise was rich, her niece a wealthy heiress, much of both their fortunes not dependent upon French finance, and a golden harvest fell upon the simple mountaineers and cattle tenders. Every available room was at the disposal of master or lackey, and the sleepy square was alive with men and women who had intrigued and danced at Versailles, who had played pastoral games with Marie Antoinette at the Trianon, whose names were famous. Idlers were many in Beauvais, exiles awaiting the hour for return, for revenge upon the rabble, yet doing nothing to forward the hour; but there were many others, men who came and went full of news and endeavor. Beauvais was a meeting place. There one might hear the latest rumors from Paris, learn what help might be expected from Austria, from Prussia; and while news was gathered and given there was brilliant entertainment at the château.

"We may make even exile bearable," the Marquise had said, and she did her utmost to do so.

It was into this wideawake village of Beauvais that Richard Barrington and Seth, weary and travel-stained, rode late one afternoon, and came to a halt before the inn. They passed almost unnoticed, for strangers were a common sight, often quaintly disguised to escape their enemies.

There was no room in the inn, nor did the good landlady, who still seemed flurried with so much business to attend to, know where they would get a lodging.

"Every house is a hotel these days, and I think every house is full," she said. "All the world has come to Beauvais for the masked ball at the château."

"There are still holes to be found," said a man lounging by the door. "My friend and I were in the same predicament, but we have found a corner. I believe there is room of sorts still to be had in the house, and if Monsieur permits, I shall have pleasure in taking him there."

"You are very good," said Barrington.

The stranger led the way across the square to an old house set back between its neighbors, as though it were modest and shrinking from observation, or desirous of keeping a secret. Its door was narrow and down a step from the roadway; its windows small, like half-closed eyes.

"Monsieur must expect little and even then get less than he expects, and pay dearly for it; but it is such a hole as this or a night in the open."

"I am weary enough not to mind much where I sleep," said Barrington.

"Add it all to the account which the canaille must some day pay," answered the man.

A stuffy little loft of a room, adjoining another loft occupied by their guide and his friend, was all the space available, but it was better than nothing, and Barrington quickly came to terms with the owner of the house.

Monsieur le Comte, for so the proprietor addressed the man who had guided them to the house, departed, hoping for their further acquaintance presently, and offering them any help which it might be in his power to afford.

"We find ourselves in a strange place, Master Richard," said Seth, surveying the room.

"We may come to stranger ones before we see Virginia again," was the answer.

"Ay, that's true; and there's not a certainty that we shall ever see Virginia again," said Seth. "I took the precaution to say farewell to all the old corners of Broadmead before I left."

"It's a fool's game to step too far into the future. A wise man never buys his own coffin," laughed Barrington. "We are in luck."

"I'm glad you think so, Master Richard. I see plenty of danger, but little luck. It was to help the people we came, and here we are at Beauvais to serve an aristocrat. Our friends the people are not likely to forgive us easily."

"There is a woman to help, Seth."

"I wonder how many excellent schemes a woman has brought to nothing."

"And that is why I say we are in luck," said Barrington, taking no notice of the comment. "How are we to get audience with this woman? The question has puzzled me upon the journey. We are met with the news that there is to be a masked ball at the château. Could we have arrived at a more opportune time?"

"You will go to the château?"

"Of course. I shall find some excuse and get a disguise that best fits it. Every one in Beauvais must be able to give me some description by which I may know Mademoiselle St. Clair. The rest will be easy."

"This faith of youth is very wonderful," said Seth.

"Not more remarkable than your forebodings," Barrington returned. "You have not always been so quick to talk of danger."

"Maybe it's the different air. I prefer the breeze that comes off Chesapeake Bay to that of these hills, and there's a devil of depression in this cockloft, it seems to me."

"Come out of it, then. Hunger and thirst are at the bottom of your croaking. We will go eat and drink and gather news."

"And at this ball, Master Richard, see that you think more of the readiness of your arms than your grace in a dance."

Barrington laughed as he descended the narrow stairs, but he was not heedless of his companion's warnings. He was fully alive to the danger he was in, and if the truth must be told, was not particularly pleased to find himself in Beauvais. He would far rather have been in Paris. The romantic element in this unexpected adventure did not greatly appeal to him. He had crossed the ocean to help an oppressed people; he was full of enthusiasm for a cause, so much an enthusiast that the two braggart representatives of the people with whom he had come in contact at Trémont had in no way disillusioned him. Refuse must needs be cast on the wave crests of a revolution; but there was also Lafayette. He was the people's true representative, and Barrington longed to be at his side to help him. He had promised to deliver a message, believing that he was undertaking a comparatively small matter, and just when he learned that a journey into Switzerland was involved, interruption had come and the man had lost consciousness. Barrington had fully intended to explain to the