lieved each other at the
feet--that is to say, the Miller-Alcalde and Don Jordy. After one
attempt, the Professor acknowledged that the chair of the Sorbonne had
unfitted him for such exercise upon the mountains.

They crossed the Elne road only a few minutes before the familiars, with
the false maid mounted on Don Jordy's white mule, went past peaceably,
trekking their way towards Perpignan and the Street of the Money.

It was clearly unsafe to continue. Yet what else to do? They crouched
behind a pillar-rock (what in Celtic lands of Ker and Pol and Tre would
have been a menhir) and listened. There came the sound of hoofs, the
jingle of a bridle. A white shape skirted with well-accustomed feet the
phosphorescent glimmer of the path, wet with dew, and wimpling upwards
towards the summit of the cape.

"My mule--the bishop's mule," muttered Don Jordy. "Oh, the villains!
Food for the _garrotte_!"

Then he comforted himself with thoughts of vengeance.

"Monseigneur will make them deliver," he growled to himself, "for White
Chiquita's pretty sake if not for that of his poor notary. He does not
greatly love the Inquisition at any time. He believes, and with justice,
that it is they and the Jesuits who are striving to take the
see-episcopal from ancient Elne, the Illiberris of the ancients, and
give it to Perpignan--_champignon_ rather, the mushroom growth of a
night."

But Don Jordy's very anathema had given him an idea.

"What if it were possible--that Monseigneur would--yes, he has great
power in what is hidden from the Holy Office. He could keep my mother
safe in his palace till we have the girl in safety. I believe he would
do it for me, his notary and registrar, who have always served both him
and the see with fidelity."

In a low voice he made his proposition to his companions. They should
all go to Elne. He, Don Jordy, would make his way into the palace of my
Lord Bishop. He had the key to a door in the base of the rock, giving
upon stairs that turned and turned till one was almost giddy.

There they would leave Madame Amelie till happier times. In a _tablier_
of white, she might well and naturally bear rule in the episcopal
kitchen, of which the waste and expense had long been a byword.

To this Jean-aux-Choux at first objected. It were best to hasten. All
who were under the ban of the Holy Office must get out of Roussillon
altogether. It was no place for them. For him it was different, of
course. None sus