And as he spoke he bowed forward his head, as if to conceal the tears which fell from his eyes.
The old father sighed heavily and painfully. He felt that his son's evil foreboding might but too easily turn out true, for Joanna of Navarre was wicked enough to make it so: nevertheless he would not give utterance to such a feeling, and so he only replied:
"It is not right, William, to sadden yourself with forebodings of evil. Hope is given to us mortals for our consolation here on earth; and why, then, should you not hope? Since your sister has been in prison, you mourn and pine so that not a smile ever passes over your countenance. It is well to feel for your sister; but, in God's name, do not give yourself up to this dark despair."
"Smile, said you, father? smile while our poor Philippa is buried in a dungeon? No, that I can not! Her tears drop upon the cold ground in the silence of her dungeon; she cries to Heaven because of her sorrows; she calls on you, my father—she calls on us all for relief; and who answers her? The hollow echo of the deep vaults of the Louvre! See you her not, pale as death, wasted and faded like a dying flower, with her hands raised to heaven? hear you her not, how she cries, 'My father, my brothers, help me; I am dying in these chains?' All this I see and hear in my heart; I feel it in my soul; how, then, can I smile?"
Matilda, who had half listened to these sorrowful words, set her hawk hastily on the back of a chair, and fell with a violent burst of tears and sobbing at the feet of her grandfather. Laying her head on his knees, she cried out piteously:
"Is my dear aunt dead? O God! what sorrow! shall I not then see her again?"
The old Count raised her tenderly from the ground, and said kindly:
"Be calm, my dear Matilda; weep not; Philippa is not dead."
"Not dead!" exclaimed the girl with astonishment; "why, then, does my uncle William speak so of death?"
"You have not understood him," answered the Count; "we know of no change that has taken place with regard to her."
The young girl then dried her tears, casting the while a reproachful look upon William, and saying to him, in the midst of her sobs:
"You are always saddening me to no purpose, uncle! One would think that you had forgotten all words of comfort; for you ever talk in a way that makes me tremble. My very hawk is frightened at your voice, it sounds so hollow! It is not kind of you, uncle, and it vexes me much."
William regarded his niece with eyes that seemed full of sorrow for the suffering he had caused her. No sooner had Matilda perceived this look of grief than, running up to him, and seizing tenderly one of his hands:
"Forgive me, dear uncle William!" she said; ''I do love you dearly; but do you too think of me, and not torture me so with that terrible word, death, which is now ever upon your lips and in my ears. Forgive me, I pray you."
And before her uncle could answer her, she had already returned to the other end of the room, and was playing with her hawk again, though with tears still in her eyes.
"My son," said Count Guy, "do not take our little Matilda's words amiss; you know she does not mean unkindly."
"I forgive her, sir, from my heart; for, indeed, I love her from my heart. And the sorrow which she showed at my poor sister's supposed death was comforting to me."
And again William opened his book, and read, this time aloud:
"O Jesus Christ the Saviour, have mercy upon my sister! By thy bitter pangs release her, O Lord!"
And as the name of his Lord sounded in the old Count's ears, he uncovered his head, folded his hands, and joined in William's prayer. Matilda set down her hawk again on the back of the chair, and knelt in a corner of the chamber, on a great cushion, before a crucifix.
William went on:
"Blessed Mary, Mother of God, hear me, I pray! Comfort her in the dark dungeon, O Holy Virgin! ,
"O Jesus! sweet Jesus! full of pity! have mercy on my poor sister!"
Count Guy waited till the prayer was at an end, and then asked, without giving further heed to Matilda, who had again returned to her hawk:
"Tell me one thing, William; do you not think that we owe great thanks to Messire de Valois?"
"Messire de Valois is the worthiest knight I know," answered the youth; "he has treated us with true generosity; he has honored your gray hairs, and even done his best to give you some comfort. I well know that all our troubles, and my sister's imprisonment, would soon be at an end, if it depended on him. May God grant him eternal bliss for his nobleness of heart!"
"Yes, may God be gracious to him in his last hour!" said the old Count. "Can vou understand, my son, how it is that our enemy should be noble enough to endanger himself for our sakes, and bring upon himself the hatred of Joanna of Navarre?"
"Yes, my father, I do understand it, when it is Charles de Valois that does it. But, after all, what can he do for us and my sister?"
"Listen, William. This morning, as we were riding together to the hawking, he showed me a way whereby, with God's help, we may be reconciled with King Philip."
In a transport of joy the young man struck his hands together, and exclaimed:
