vator, a suspect, a hypocrite in the eyes of the Catholic party. So strangely fallen was the Man of God.
"My son and I," writes Louisa. She makes no note of Margaret, whose mystical fervour was heightened by persecution. She was now more than ever identified with the party of reform; for their abrupt danger had touched the strongest fibre of her nature, her compassion for the oppressed. Heedless of her own peril, she toiled day and night to rescue and preserve these impoverished fugitives—to obtain a hiding-place for this, a pardon for that, a pension for the other. And she worked to such purpose, she used to such effect her influence with Francis, that from 152l, when the persecution began, until 1525, the year of the captivity, no victim was burned alive at the stakes of the orthodox. Still there were other miseries: flogging, branding, torture, miserable dungeons, from which she could not rescue all suspected. And the spectacle of so much pain and such injustice wounded her gentle heart; and did not rankle there. Strange tenderness for the oppressed, that showed no reverse of hatred for the oppressor; constancy in well-doing, that knew no disdain for the weaker and more fickle. This exquisite humanity, this perfume of charity, is the very breath of Margaret's soul. While rescuing Roussel and Lefebvre, sheltering the poor shepherdless flock of Meaux, she felt no bitterness towards their betrayer. She did not resent the failure of this timid pastor to whom she had entrusted her soul and so many others. He having flagged and fallen away, she quietly stepped into his vacant place and took upon her slender shoulders the burden he had dropped. From this moment Margaret, not Briçonnet, is the centre of the movement of Meaux.
