Lauzun and another French gentleman, of the name of St. Victor, probably the brave officer of that name whose life king James, when duke of York, had saved by his personal valour at the battle of Dunkirk, thirty years before. All things having been secretly arranged by them, and the danger becoming daily more imminent, the evening of the 9th of December was appointed for the enterprise. It was a Sunday, but no Sabbath stillness hallowed it in the turbulent metropolis. The morning was ushered in with tumults-tidings of evil import arrived from all parts of the kingdom. When the evening approached, the queen's reluctance to leave her royal husband returned, and she implored to be permitted to remain and share his perils. James assured her once more that it was his intention to follow in four-and-twenty hours, but that for the sake of their son it was necessary for her to precede him.

Their majesties, to avoid suspicion, retired to bed as usual at ten o'clock that night. About an hour after, they rose, and the queen commenced her sorrowful preparations. At midnight, St. Victor, clad in the coarse habit of a seaman, and armed, ascended by a secret stair to the king's apartment, bringing some part of the disguise he had procured for the queen, and announced that everything was ready for her majesty's departure. He then retired to another room, where the count de Lauzun was waiting till she had completed her toilette. She had confided her secret to lady Strickland, the lady of the bedchamber in waiting, that night, who assisted to attire her in her strange travelling array. Lady Strickland, in fact, only waited to perform this service before she, by another route, herself started for Gravesend, in order to be in readiness to receive her majesty and the little prince, to whom she was sub-governess, on board the yacht that was

in waiting for them there. As soon as the queen was ready they proceeded by a back stair from the king's apartment to that of Madame Labuadie, the prince's nurse, whither the royal infant had been secretly conveyed some time before. There all the persons who were to attend the queen and the prince assembled, namely, the count de Lauzun, M. de St. Victor, and the two nurses.

The king said to Lauzun with deep emotion, "I confide my queen and son to your care; all must be hazarded to convey them, with the utmost speed, to France." Lauzun expressed his high sense of the honour that was conferred on him, and presented his hand to the queen to lead her away. She turned a parting look on the kingan eloquent, but mute farewell—and followed by the two nurses with her sleeping infant, crossed the great gallery in silence, stole down the back stairs, preceded by St. Victor, who had the keys, and passing through a postern door which opened into Privy Gardens, quitted Whitehall for ever. A coach was waiting at the gate which had been borrowed of the Florentine envoy, by St. Victor. On their way they had to pass six sentinels, by whom they were challenged, but St. Victor making the proper reply and having the master-key, they were allowed to pass. The queen, the prince, his two nurses, and the count de Lauzun got into the coach. St. Victor placed himself beside the coachman on the box, and directed him to drive to the Horseferry, Westminster, where a small open boat, which he had engaged, was waiting.

"The night was wet and stormy, and so dark," says St. Victor, in his interesting narrative of the escape, "that when we got into the boat we could not see each other, though we were closely seated, for the boat was very small.' Thus, on this inclement wintry night, did the queen of Great Britain, cross the swollen waters of

the Thames, with her tender infant of six months old in her arms, with no other attendance than his two nurses, escorted only by Lauzun and St. Victor. A curious print of the time represents the boat in danger, and the two gentlemen manfully assisting the rowers, who are labouring against wind and tide. The queen is seated by the steersman, and enveloped in a large cloak with the hood drawn over her head; her attitude is expressive of melancholy, and she appears anxious to shelter the little prince, who is asleep on her bosom, partially shrouded among the ample folds of her draperies. The other females betray alarm.* The passage was rendered difficult and perilous by the violence of the wind and the heavy swell of the waves. St. Victor confesses that he felt extreme terror at the danger to which he saw the queen and prince exposed, and that his only reliance was in the mercy of God, "through whose especial providence," he says, we were preserved, and arrived at our destination." When they reached the opposite bank, where the page of the backstairs was in waiting, he told "them that the coach and six which had been engaged to meet them there had not yet arrived." St. Victor ran off to the inn to make inquiries for it, leaving Lauzun to protect the queen. She withdrew herself and her little company under the walls of the old church at Lambeth, having no better shelter from the cold wind, or any other consolation than that the heavy rain had ceased. On that spot, which has been rendered a site of historic interest by this incident, the beautiful consort of the last of our Stuart kings stood, with her infant boy fondly clasped to her bosom, during an agonising interval of suspense, dreading every moment that he would awake, and betray them by his cries. Her apprehensions were unfounded. He had

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*Life of Mary Beatrice.-" Lives of the Queens of England," vol. ix.

slept sweetly while they carried him, at the dead of night, from his royal nursery to the cold river side. Neither wind nor rain had disturbed him; he was the only one of the party undismayed by the perils of the passage, and he still continued wrapt in calm repose, alike unconscious of the loss of his regal inheritance and his mother's woe. The attention of that unfortunate princess was distracted between her maternal solicitude for her sleeping babe, and fears for her absent husband. She looked back, with streaming eyes, towards the royal home, where she had left the king, surrounded with perils, and fondly endeavoured to trace out the lights of Whitehall among those that were reflected from the opposite bank of the dark rolling river she had just crossed. It has generally been asserted that Mary Beatrice remained nearly an hour under the walls of that old church, with the little prince in her arms, waiting for the coach, but this is an exaggeration; for St. Victor declares he found the coach and horses at the inn, which was not very far from the landing-place. The delay, therefore, must have been comparatively brief; but, when time is measured by terror and suspense, minutes are lengthened into hours.

The haste and agitation of St. Victor when he came to inquire after the coach, together with his foreign accent, excited observation in the inn yard. A man with a lantern, who was on the watch, ran out to reconnoitre, and made directly towards the spot where the queen was standing. "I went," says St. Victor, "with all speed, on the other side of the way, fearing he would recognise the party on the bank. When I saw he was actually approaching them, I made as if I wished to pass him, and put myself full in his path, so that we came in contact with each other, fell, and rolled in the mud. We made mutual apologies for the accident; he went back to

dry himself, without his light, which was extinguished in the fall; and I hastened to the carriage, which was now near, and joined her majesty." Wet, weary, and benumbed with cold, Mary Beatrice entered the coach with her babe and his attendants, followed by the Count de Lauzun. The page, not having been entrusted with the secret, was to have returned to Whitehall, but, having recognised his royal mistress, insisted on sharing her fortunes, and added himself to the party. As they drove off, they encountered several of the guards, one of whom said, "Come and see; this is certainly a coach full of papists;" however, they were allowed to pass without interruption, and arrived safely at Gravesend by daylight. They were met by three Irish captains whom the king had sent to conduct the queen on board the yacht, and to guard her person while there. Finding her majesty had not arrived, they came to meet her on the way, and brought her to the boat provided for that purpose, which was moored close to the shore, Mary Beatrice immediately descended from the coach, followed by her attendants with the prince, and, stepping on a small point of land, entered the boat, which was soon rowed to the yacht, which lay at Gravesend waiting for her.

She was dressed to personate an Italian laundress—a character not quite in keeping with that majestic style of beauty so well exemplified by Byron's descriptive line

"And the high dama's brow more melancholy."

She carried the little prince under her arm, curiously enveloped, so as to represent a bundle of linen. Fortunately, he did not betray the counterfeit by crying.

The wind being fair for France, the sails were hoisted as soon as the queen came on board, and the yacht got under weigh. The master had not the slightest suspicion