“Well, then, to the king, your nephew.  Shall I speak to him?  You know how much he loves me, my mother.

“Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.”

“Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl.

The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the daughter and grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and daughter of Charles I.

They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun softly tapped at the door of the cell.

“Enter, my sister,” said the queen.

“I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her meditations, but a foreign lord has arrived from England and waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a letter to your majesty.”

“Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps.  News from your father, do you hear, Henrietta?  And the name of this lord?”

“Lord de Winter.”

“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my husband.  Oh, bid him enter!”

And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a letter to her, contained in a case of gold.

“Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things which we have not seen for a long time.  Gold, a devoted friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master.”

De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of emotion.

On their side the mother and daughter retired into the embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter: 

“Dear Wife, —­ We have now reached the moment of decision.  I have concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources Heaven has left me, and I write to you in haste from thence.  Here I await the army of my rebellious subjects.  I am about to struggle for the last time with them.  If victorious, I shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am lost.  I shall try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of France.  But can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who will bring such a sad story into a country already agitated by civil discord?  Your wisdom and your affection must serve me as guides.  The bearer of this letter will tell you, madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks of transit.  He will explain to you the steps that I expect you to pursue.  I charge him also with my blessing for my children and with the sentiments of my soul for yourself, my dearest sweetheart.”

The letter bore the signature, not of “Charles, King,” but of “Charles —­ still king.”

“And let him be no longer king,” cried the queen.  “Let him be conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives.  Alas! in these days the throne is too dangerous a place for me to wish him to retain it.  But my lord, tell me,” she continued, “hide nothing from me —­ what is, in truth, the king’s position?  Is it as hopeless as he thinks?”