of Valois had already commenced operations in Gascony against Henry of
Navarre, whom he hated, almost as cordially as Margaret herself could do,
and the Duke of Alencon was besieging Issoire. Meantime, the beautiful
Queen came to mingle he golden thread of her feminine intrigues with the
dark woof of the Netherland destinies.

Few spirits have been more subtle, few faces so fatal as hers. True
child of the Medicean mother, worthy sister of Charles, Henry; and
Francis--princes for ever infamous in the annals of France--she possessed
more beauty and wit than Mary of Scotland, more learning and
accomplishments than Elizabeth of England. In the blaze of her beauty,
according to the inflated language of her most determined worshiper, the
wings of all rivals were melted. Heaven required to be raised higher and
earth made wider, before a full sweep could be given to her own majestic
flight. We are further informed that she was a Minerva for eloquence,
that she composed matchless poems which she sang most exquisitely to the
sound of her lute, and that her familiar letters were so full of genius,
that "poor Cicero" was but a fool to her in the same branch of
composition. The world has shuddered for ages at the dark tragedy of
her nuptials. Was it strange that hatred, incest, murder, should follow
in the train of a wedding thus hideously solemnized?

Don John, as in his Moorish disguise he had looked upon her perfections,
had felt in danger of becoming really the slave he personated--"her
beauty is more divine than human," he had cried, "but fitter to destroy
men's souls than to bless them;" and now the enchantress was on her way
to his dominions. Her road led through Namur to Liege, and gallantry
required that he should meet her as she passed. Attended by a select
band of gentlemen and a few horsemen of his body-guard, the Governor came
to Namur.