more devoted." He took her passive hand and

pressed it to his lips.

"Thou art a kind and faithful knight, De Barre; you would have saved him if you could."

A shudder passed over his handsome features, and it was a moment before he recovered himself, but she did not observe it. "Methinks I shall not be utterly friendless while such as you and Sir Reginald de Courtenaye are my guardi

ans."

Courtenaye is a brave and loyal knight, though somewhat rough at times," observed De

Barre;

"he knows not what affliction is, and shines most in the battle-field or at the feast;

but I, alas!"-He sighed.

“You have known sorrow, sir knight, or you could not offer consolation in so gentle a strain.”

"Indeed I have; but could I soften the griefs -could I alleviate the sufferings of the fairest, sweetest princess in France, how gratefully should

I be repaid for all I have endured.” And again he took her hand. Fearing, however, to betray himself, and that she might see through his flattery and ardent expressions, for though a woman and a princess, Jane was not blind to adulation, he said more calmly, "Is there aught I can serve you in at this present, lady?"

"Alas! you can do nothing, generous knight, but accept the thanks for all you would do, of the wretched but grateful Jane de Penthièvre.”

The dangerous state of Charles's health appearing more alarming than a simple lance-thrust would have warranted, roused Courtenaye's suspicions, not of the honesty, but of the skill of the leech, who so assiduously attended him, and he determined to seek other advice, though where to meet with it he knew not. Many pretenders to the art could be found, many who could apply a cautery or administer a draught, but few who

could restore the dying to health. Thoughtful and uneasy he wandered through the camp, endeavouring to recall any wonderful cures that might have been performed, but in vain; when his meditations were interrupted by a man in the dress of a Franciscan; his hat, and the skirts of

his

gown adorned with escalop shells, proclaimed him a palmer from the Holy Land.

"Good morrow, fair sir," said the friar; " "you seem more sad and sorrowful this morn than when

last we met."

The knight looked at him with surprise. "Methinks, reverend father, I have seen you before; but my memory holds not to say when

or where."

The palmer put off his hat; "Knowest thou me now, my son? or hast thou quite forgotten Blasset and mine host of the Saracen ?"

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God be praised!" cried Courtenaye.

"By

what fortunate chance are you led hither, father?

You are skilled in leechcraft, you can heal our

dying prince."

"Lead me to him, sir knight; if my knowledge can avail him, the will shall not be wanting; but I work no miracles, I am no other than you see me; though in Palestine I learned to treat wounds and sicknesses differently, and sometimes with more success than the Franks. The infidel can save the body when the Christian fails; but, alas! what boots it when his soul must be accursed ?"

"Wilt thou then, father, bear me company to the tent of the Lord Charles of Blois, who was desperately wounded yestermorn? He has been

attended by a leech, but grows rather worse than better, and I fear cannot hold life long."

The friar readily consented, and questioning him as he went, more particularly on the prince's health, they soon arrived at the house of mourning. Charles was almost mad with pain and fever,

and Jane, pale and exhausted, was bending over him, in vain endeavouring to relieve his agonies. She turned as they entered, but did not observe the friar, who was rather behind the knight. "Oh! Courtenaye," she whispered, "the fever increases; he cannot, cannot live."

"I bring hope and consolation," he replied; "for Providence threw me in the way of this holy man, and he has much skill in pharmacy."

He looked round for the friar; but he was much struck and almost shocked by his appearance: his eyes were fixed on Courtenaye, who had doffed his casque and tossed aside the locks from his brow, yet the palmer gazed on him as if on vacancy; his nostrils were distended, and his lips compressed in the same extraordinary way as when Courtenaye first observed him shriving the poor woman at the inn.

"Father," he said-the Franciscan started as if suddenly awakened from a dream, and drew his