argued that the fact of her capture was a proof that God had forsaken her. "Since it has pleased Him that I should be taken," she replied, "all is for the best." "Will you submit to the judgment of the Church Militant ?" "I came to the King of France," she answered, "by commission from God and from the Church Militant above: to that Church I submit." "Do your Voices forbid you to submit to the Church and the Pope?" "Not so indeed, for our Lord first served."

Towards the end, she grew physically exhausted, and then she wavered a little; but she still bravely resisted the theory of diabolical possession. And when sentence was delivered against her, she cried, "I hold to my Judge, to the King of heaven and earth. In all that I have done, God has been my Lord. The devil has never had power over me." In a moment of sudden weakness, or from a desire to exchange her English prison for the prisons of the Church, she was induced to subscribe an act of abjuration, and consented to abandon the male attire she had worn. In the eyes of the Church, this assumption of male attire was a crime; and when, to defend herself from insult, she resumed it, she was declared guilty of a relapse into heresy. Tearful and trembling, she was led to the stake; and as she passed along in the holy light of her innocent purity, the brutal soldiery were hushed into silence. One of them took a stick, shaped it into a rude cross, and handed it to her. She clasped it to her bosom. The pile was kindled; but in this last supreme trial she recovered all her courage, and, as if a

new revelation had burst upon her, exclaimed, “Yes, my Voices were of God! They have never deceived me!" As, in truth, they never do deceive the true Christian soul and earnest patriot heart. "The fiery smoke rose up in billowy columns. A Dominican monk was then standing almost at her side. Wrapped up in his sacred office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last enemy was racing up the stairs to seize her, even at that moment did this noblest of girls think only for him, the one friend that would not forsake her, bidding him with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave her to God." The flames gathered around their victim, and as they folded her in their deadly embrace, her head sank on her breast and she breathed her last word, "Jesus!" Then the crowd, awe-struck and remorseful, slowly quitted the market-place which this terrible tragedy had for ever rendered infamous. "We are lost," cried an English warrior, "we are lost; we have burned a saint!"

Thus lived and died an enthusiast,-closing a patriot's life by a martyr's death. She had scarcely reached the full maturity of womanhood, for she was not one-andtwenty when she perished in the market-place of Rouen.

-MRS. FRY.-LADY FAWSHAWE.-MRS. GODOLPHIN.

M

MADAME DE MIRAMION.

ARIE BONNEAU DE RABELLE was born on

the 2nd of November, 1629. When about nine years old, she lost her mother; and the loss affected her so deeply that a serious illness was the result. As soon as she had somewhat recovered, her father placed her under the contending influences of an aunt who loved dearly all the gay pastimes of society, and a pious governess, whose thoughts were always dedicated to graver things. Marie was of a thoughtful disposition, and she preferred the teaching of the governess to the example of her aunt. Her delight was to draw near to her Heavenly Father in prayer, and to render Him faithful and lowly service by waiting upon the poor and sick. On the occasion of a great ball given by her aunt, she was missed from the glittering throng. The dancers waited for her, but she

was nowhere to be found, until the seekers traced her to a small retired chamber, where she was found on her knees by the bedside of a man-servant, who was dying in anguished convulsions. This incident supplies us with a key to the secret of her life; she loved God, and she despised the world. Though young and handsome and wealthy, society had no charm for her sweet, grave temper. She had studied the teaching of Christ's life, and strove to act up to it.

She was only fourteen when her father died. With exceptional wisdom and prudence she then undertook the management of the household, and the supervision of the education of her younger brothers. In May 1645, when in her sixteenth year,—and still a girl, though with a woman's gravity,-she married M. de Miramion. Her ideal of a married life, however, was an erroneous one; she says that she and her husband never spoke together of anything save death,—a strange misinterpretation of the spirit of the Christian faith, which would have us use life, but not abuse it, and nowhere imposes on us the oppressive atmosphere of the charnel-house. As M. de Miramion died in the sixth month of their marriage, it is possible that their conversation may have been determined in its choice of subjects by his illness, and it may have been directed to comfort and strengthen him.

For two years the girl-widow lived in great retirement. She made it publicly known that she did not intend to marry again; but she was rich and beautiful, and only eighteen, and the world refused to take her at her word.

Of these the most con

Suitors thronged around her. spicuous and the most audacious was Bussy de Rabutin, the wit and courtier, a cousin of Madame de Sévigné, and a man of notoriously dissolute character. Her wealth was exactly what he needed for the repair of his broken fortunes. He saw her twice in a church, and the sacredness of the place was no check on his worldly ambition; he was pleased with the girl-widow's beauty, and resolved to carry her off and force her into a marriage, not counting on much resistance from so young and gentle a creature, and trusting not a little to his personal address and comeliness.

She

Madame de Miramion was spending her eighteenth summer at a country-house a few miles from Paris. received several anonymous warnings; but having no knowledge of Bussy de Rabutin's sudden passion for herself and her fortune, failed to understand, and did not act upon them. One fine August morning, she left Issy in an open carriage, accompanied by her mother-inlaw, two female attendants, and an old squire, to offer up her prayers at the shrine on Mont Valérien. When within a mile or so of their goal, twenty men on horseback suddenly surrounded them, changed the horses, and compelled the coachman to drive in a different direction. In vain Madame de Miramion cried for help; the scene was lonely, and no help came; the cavalcade dashed forward rapidly, and soon plunged into the depths of the woods of Livry. Here the track was so narrow that the horsemen could no longer keep ground on