ABOUT three hundred years ago, there was a small kingdom, spreading over the cliffs and ravines of the eastern extremity of the Pyrenees, called Navarre. Its population, of about five hundred thousand, consisted of a frugal and industrious people--those living upon the shore washed by the stormy waves of the Bay of Biscay, gratifying their love of excitement and adventure by braving the perils of the sea-those who lived in the solitude of the interior, on the sunny slopes of the mountains, or by the streams which meandered through the verdant valleys, fed their flocks and harvested their grain, and pressed rich wine from the grapes of their vineyards, in the enjoyment of the most pleasant duties of rural life. Proud of their independence, they were ever ready to grasp arms to repel foreign aggression. The throne of this kingdom was, at the time of which we speak, occupied by Catharine de Foix. She was a widow, and all her hopes and affections were centered in her son Henry, who was to receive the crown when it should fall from her brow, and transmit to posterity their ancestral honors.

Ferdinand of Arragon had just married Isa- || bella of Castile, and thus united those two kingdoms. And now, in the arrogance of power, seized with the pride of annexation, he began to look with a wistful eye upon the kingdom of Navarre. Its comparative feebleness, under the reign of a bereaved woman, weary of the world, invited to the enterprise. France might interpose should he grasp at all. Should he take but the half, which was spread out upon the southern declivity of the Pyrenees, it would be virtually saying to the French monarch, "the rest I generously leave for you." The armies of Spain were soon sweeping resistlessly through these sunny valleys, and one half of her empire was ruthlessly torn from the Queen of Navarre, and transferred to the dominion of imperious Castile and Arragon.

Catharine, with her child, retired to the colder regions of the northern declivity, and as she sat down gloomily in that portion of her dismembered domain, she endeavored to foster, in the bosom of her son, the spirit of revenge, and to inspire him with the resolution to regain those

lost acres which had been wrested from the inheritance of his fathers. Henry imbibed his mother's spirit, and chafed and fretted under wrongs for which he could obtain no redress. Ferdinand and Isabella, in their pride and power, could not be annoyed even by any force which feeble Navarre could raise. The queen, however, brooded deeply over her wrongs, and laid her train for retributions of revenge, the execution of which she knew must be deferred until long after her body should have mouldered to the dust. She courted the most intimate alliance with Francis I., the king of France. She contemplated the merging of her own little kingdom into that powerful monarchy, that the infant Navarre, having grown into the giant France, might crush the Spanish tyrants into humiliation. Nerved by this determined spirit of revenge, and inspired by a mother's ambition, she intrigued to wed her son to the heiress of the French throne, that even in the world of spirits she might be cheered by seeing Henry heading the armies of France, the terrible avenger of her wrongs. These hopes invigorated her until her fitful dream of life was terminated, and her restless spirit sank into the repose of the grave. She lived, however, to see her plans apparently in progress towards their most successful fulfilment.

Henry was married to Margaret, the favorite sister of the king of France. Their nuptials were blest with but one child, Jeanne d'Albert, the prospective heiress to both the thrones of France and Navarre. This child, in whose destiny such ambitious hopes were centered, bloomed into most marvellous beauty, and became also as conspicuous for her mental endowments as for her personal charms. She had hardly emerged from the period of childhood when she was married to a near relative of the royal family of France. With her husband she left Navarre to reside in the metropolis of that powerful empire. One hope still lived with unabated vigor in the bosom of Henry. It was the hope—the intense passion, with which his departed mother had inspired him, that a grandson would arise from this union, who would, with the spirit of Hannibal, avenge the family wrongs upon Spain Twice Henry took a grandson into his arms, w