.

"I follow Philip," it said. "Sic transit gloria.... Call me Arnulf the
goldsmith and Robert the scrivener.... Quick, man, quick. I have much to
do ere I die."

As the steward hurried out, the Cluniac, remembering his office, sought
to offer comfort, but in his bland worldling's voice the consolations
sounded hollow. She lay motionless, while he quoted the Scriptures.
Encouraged by her docility, he spoke of the certain reward promised by
Heaven to the rich who remembered the Church at their death. He touched
upon the high duties of his Order and the handicap of its poverty. He
bade her remember her debt to the Abbot of Cluny.

She seemed about to speak and he bent eagerly to catch her words.

"Peace, you babbler," she said. "I am done with your God. When I meet
Him I will outface Him. He has broken His compact and betrayed me. My
riches go to the Burgrave for the comfort of this city where they were
won. Let your broken rush of a Church wither and rot!"

Scared out of all composure by this blasphemy, the Cluniac fell to
crossing himself and mumbling invocations. The diplomat had vanished and
only the frightened monk remained. He would fain have left the room had
he dared, but the spell of her masterful spirit held him. After that she
spoke nothing....

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Again there was a noise on the stairs and she moved a little, as if
mustering her failing strength for the ultimate business. But it was not
Arnulf the gold smith. It was Anton, and he shook like a man on his way
to the gallows.

"Madam, dear madam," he stammered, again on his knees. "There is another
message. One has come from the Bredestreet with word of your lady
daughter. An hour ago she has borne a child...A lusty son, madam."

The reply from the bed was laughter.

It began low and hoarse like a fit of coughing, and rose to the high
cackling mirth of extreme age. At the sound both Anton and the monk took
to praying. Presently it stopped, and her voice came full and strong as
it had been of old.

"Mea culpa," it said, "mea maxima culpa. I judged the Sire God over
hastily. He is merry and has wrought a jest on me. He has kept His
celestial promise in His own fashion. He takes my brave Philip and gives
me instead a suckling.... So be it. The infant has my blood, and the
race of Forester John will not die. Arnulf will have an easy task.
He need but set the name of this new-born in Philip's place. What manner
of c