‘Not to the King,’ said the pastor, gently. ‘Also, Lady, how will it be with their homes and families—the hearths that have given you such faithful shelter?’
‘The women would take to the woods,’ readily answered she; ‘it is summer-time, and they should be willing to bear something for my sake. I should grieve indeed,’ she added, ‘if my uncle misused them. They have been very good to me, but then they belong to me.’
‘Ah! Lady, put from you that hardening belief of seigneurs. Think what their fidelity deserves from their Lady.’
‘I will be good to them! I do love them! I will be their very good mistress,’ said Eustacie, her eyes filling.
‘The question is rather of forbearing than of doing,’ said the minister.
‘But what would you have me do?’ asked Eustacie, petulantly.
‘This, Lady. I gather that you would not return to your relations.’
‘Never! never! They would rend my babe from me; they would kill her, or at least hide her for ever in a convent—they would force me into this abhorrent marriage. No—no—no—my child and I would die a hundred deaths together rather than fall into the hands of Narcisse.’
‘Calm yourself, Lady; there is no present fear, but I deem that the safest course for the little one would be to place her in England. She must be heiress to lands and estates there; is she not?’
‘Yes; and in Normandy.’