only--ever since her father gathered me up, a lame and bleeding boy, on
the morning after the Bartholomew. And ever since that day I have loved
much, showed little, and said nothing at all. Yet I have kept keen
guard. Night and day I have gone about her house, like a faithful dog
when the wolves are howling in the forests. Now, if you love this girl
with any light love, take your way as you came--for you shall have to
reckon with me!"

The Abbe John dropped back on the round stone which served equally as
seat and rubbing-post in the sheepfold. The oil off many woolly backs
had long since rendered it black and glistening. He resumed the
polishing of his nails with his dagger-edge.

Grave and stem, Jean-aux-Choux stood before him, his hand on the weapon
which had slain the Guise. The Abbe John rubbed each finger-nail
carefully on the velvet of his cap as he finished it, breathed on it,
rubbed again, and then held it up to the light.

"Ah, Jean," he said at last, "I may not go about her house howling like
a wolf, nor yet do any great thing for her. As you say, our acquaintance
has not been long. But if you can love her more than I, or serve her
better, or are willing to give your life more lightly for her sake than
I--why then, Jean, my friend, you are welcome to her!"

Jean-aux-Choux did not answer, but D'Albret took no heed. He went on:

"'By their deeds ye shall know them. They taught you that at Geneva, I
warrant. Well, from what I have seen these past three days, Claire Agnew
is far from safe down there. I have watched that black-browed master of
yours conferring with certain other gentlemen of singularly evil
physiognomy. There has been far too much dodging into coppices and
popping heads round stone walls. And then, as often as the maid comes to
the door with the little old woman in the stomacher of blue--click--they
are all in their holes again, like a warren-full of rabbits when you
look over the hedge and clap your hands! I do not like it,
Jean-aux-Choux!"

Neither did Jean-aux-Choux--so little, indeed, that he decided to take
this light-minded young gentleman, of good family and few ambitions,
into his confidence--which, perhaps, was the wisest thing he could have
done. From his blouse he drew the parchment he had lifted off the table
of the Inquisition in the Street of the Money, and thrust it silently
into the other's hand.

This was all Jean-aux-Choux's apology, but, for the Abbe John, it was
perfectl