“Dost thou doubt me, father?” replied Idalie, sadly, and somewhat reproachfully. “Thinkest thou my heart is so engrossed with selfish sorrows that I feel no pride, no love for mine ancient race, that its glory and its power shall decrease with me?”
“No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained thee, yet I meant it not.” Pausing a moment, he continued hurriedly, “Idalie, our faith, our blessed faith is tottering, falling in this land. Each month, each week the heretics gain ground; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and life renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand for their destruction; but my whole soul trembles for my native land. Idalie, my child, I know thy heart beats true as mine to our ancient creed. I know thou wilt never turn aside thyself from the one true path; but oh, for thy dead father’s sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands, and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed. Thou wilt not wed with heresy, my child?”
“Never, my father! I can pity and pray for these misguided ones; but never shall my hand be given to one unfaithful to his God. Yet wherefore this fear? Am I not the plighted bride of one who would rather die than lead me astray, or turn aside himself?”
The fading eyes of the dying lit suddenly up with feverish radiance, his cheek burned, and his mind evidently so far wandered as to prevent either his hearing or understanding his daughter’s last words.
“And thou wilt promise this?” he said, in a voice at once alarmingly hollow, yet strangely excited; “thou wilt solemnly promise never to give thyself and thy fair heritage to the heretic; thou wilt not let the foul spot blacken our noble line? Promise me this, my child.”
Alarmed at the change in his appearance, and convinced that Montgomeri, who, when he left her, had been as true and zealous a Catholic as herself, was not of a nature to change, Idalie knelt down beside the couch, and in distinct and solemn accents made the vow required.
The Count de Montemar raised himself with sudden strength, and laid both his hands on the bent head of his child. “Now blessings, blessings on thee for this, my sainted one!” he said, distinctly; “thou hast removed all doubt, all fear; death has no terror now, no sting. God’s blessing be upon thee, love, and give—”
His voice sunk, but his lips still warmly pressed her brow, and minutes thus passed. A cloud had come before the moon, and when her light broke forth again, Idalie knelt by the couch of the dead.
IV.
Idalie de Montemar was not long permitted to indulge her grief in solitude. Scarcely two months after her loss, an express arrived from Paris, and she was compelled to prepare her chateau and vassals for the reception of the young king, the queen mother, and court, who in their progress to the south passed through Auvergne. Idalie roused herself from the sorrow which weighed so heavily on her spirits. Although chivalry had lost much of the enthusiasm and warmth which had characterised it not half a century previous, its memory still lingered in the minds of men; and something of this feeling actuated the men of Montemar as they looked on their youthful countess. Shrinking and timid as she had been while her parent lived, a new spirit now seemed her own; and it was with all the proud consciousness that she was now sole representative of one of the most ancient and most noble families of France that Idalie de Montemar, at the head of her loyal vassals, received her royal guests, and knelt in homage to the youthful Charles.