more populous and orderly regions, where the forest was
thinner and townships more frequent. The urgent need for haste had
slightly diminished, and though still anxious to reach their
destination, the party was not in fear of an instant attack from a
pursuing foe.

The Navailles would scarce dare to fall upon the party in the
neighbourhood of so many of the English King's fortified cities; and
before the sun set they hoped to be within the environs of Bordeaux
itself -- a hope in which they were not destined to be disappointed.

Nor was Gaston disappointed of his other hope; for scarce had they
obtained admission for their unconscious and invalided comrade within
the walls of the Cistercian Monastery, and Gaston was still eagerly
pouring into the Prior's ears the story of his brother's capture and
imprisonment, when the door of the small room into which the strangers
had been taken was slowly opened to admit a tall, gaunt figure, and
Father Paul himself stood before them. He gave Gaston one long,
searching look; but he never forgot a face, and greeted him by name as
Sir Gaston de Brocas, greatly to the surprise of the youth, who thought
he would neither be recognized nor known by the holy Father. Then
passing him quickly by, the monk leaned over the couch upon which
Raymond had been laid -- a hard oaken bench -- covered by the cloak of
the man who had borne him in.

Raymond's eyes were closed; his face, with the sunset light lying full
upon it, showed very hollow and white and worn. Even in the repose of a
profound unconsciousness it wore a look of lofty purpose, together with
an expression of purity and devotion impossible to describe. Gaston and
the Prior both turned to look as Father Paul bent over the prostrate
figure with an inarticulate exclamation such as he seldom uttered, and
Gaston felt a sudden thrill of cold fear run through him.

"He is not dead?" he asked, in a passionate whisper; and the Father
looked up to answer:

"Nay, Sir Knight, he is not dead. A little rest, a little tendance, a
little of our care, and he will be restored to the world again. Better
perhaps were it not so - better perchance for him. For his is not the
nature to battle with impunity against the evil of the world. Look at
him as he lies there: is that face of one that can look upon the deeds
of these vile days and not suffer keenest pain? To fight and to vanquish
is thy lot, young warrior; but what is his? To tread the thornier p