er shoulders, that she stammered
something.

"This--why this--is--is----"

"Never mind what it is," growled the Miller-Alcalde; "at any rate, it
will not bite you, and you may need it before the night is out!"

And so without a good-bye--only just settling the lace mantilla as
becomingly as possible upon his head and drawing the waist-ribbon of the
girl's cloak close round his middle, the Abbe John, with a wave of his
hand and a low-spoken "Take good care of her" to the miller, sauntered
carelessly back through the maze of sand-hills in the direction of these
three good and faithful bloodhounds of the Holy Inquisition, Felieu the
Esplugan, Andres the Ape, and the giant Serra of the African smile, who
loved his work for his work's sake.

And between his teeth John d'Albret muttered these words, "I will show
them."

Also once, just when he came within hearing of the stealthy creep of the
pursuers, he added, "And I will show her!"

He did. For when next Claire Agnew looked back, the One for whom she
looked was not.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

BISHOP, ARCHBISHOP, AND ANGELICAL DOCTOR

At sight of his master in the boat Jean-aux-Choux turned sharply to the
left. Obviously they must try elsewhere. The way of the sea was shut to
them in front; the enemy was clearly awake and waiting for them there.
The net behind had not had time to be drawn tight, and if the Abbe John
proved successful in deceiving the familiars of the Holy Office, it
would not close. Still, there was every reason for haste. There was no
disguising that fact.

Passing behind the town walls as swiftly as might be, with the burden of
Madame Amelie in their arms, Jean-aux-Choux halted the brothers for a
while in lee of a sheepfold with walls high enough for a fort. Then,
passing within, he appeared presently with two poles and a piece of
sacking, out of which he extemporised a carrying hammock. He and his
comrades used it for carrying down to their huts and shelters such
wounded sheep or weakly lambs as they found high up among the mountains,
that they might be tended back to health again.

The Senora was a little woman--a mere "rickle of bones," in Jean's
Scottish phrase, and hardly heavier than a stout six months' lamb.
Indeed, so much had the flesh faded under the strain of her constant
activity, that the restless spirit within seemed to pulse and throb
under the frail envelope like a new-taken bird.

Jean-aux-Choux took the head. The brothers re