streamed down very near where Eustacie lay, and by a slight
movement Dame Rotrou was able to render the little face as
distinctly visible to her as if it had been daylight, save that the
blanching light was somewhat embellishing to the new-born
complexion, and increased that curious resemblance so often borne
for the first few hours of life to the future self. Eustacie's cry
at once was, 'Himself, himself--his very face! Let me have her, my
own moonbeam--his child--my joy!'

The tears, so long denied, rushed down like summer rain as she
clasped the child in her arms. Dame Perrine wandered to and fro,
like one beside herself, not only at her Lady's wretched
accommodations, but at the ill omens of the moonlight illumination,
of the owls who snapped and hissed incessantly over the hay, and
above all the tears over the babe's face. She tried to remonstrate
with Eustacie, but was answered only, 'Let me weep! Oh, let me
weep! It eases my heart! It cannot hurt my little one! She
cannot weep for her father herself, so I must weep for her.'

The weeping was gentle, not violent; and Dame Rotrou thought it did
good rather than harm. She was chiefly anxious to be quit of
Perrine, who, however faithful to the Lady of Ribaumont, must not
be trusted to learn the way to this Huguenot asylum, and must be
escorted back by Rotrou ere peep of dawn. The old woman knew that
her own absence from home would be suspicious, and with many
grumblings submitted; but first she took the child from Eustacie's
reluctant arms, promising to restore her in a few moments, after
finishing dressing her in the lace-edged swaddling bands so
carefully preserved ever since Eustacie's own baby hood. In these
moments she had taken them all by surprise by, without asking any