say. Then, going to the purple velvet curtain
which divided his audience-chamber from the bedrooms, he announced in a
clear, unmistakable voice, "My Lord Cardinal Archbishop!"

Upon which, with smiling dignity, there entered the famous Jean Teres
Doria, now Archbishop of Tarragona and Viceroy of all Catalonia, whom
the Infanta of Spain had caused to be thus advanced only four years ago,
because of his treatment of her as Bishop of Elne when her ship was
wrecked on the rocks of Collioure.

"Ah, Don Jorge!" said the great prelate, holding out his hand for the
notary to kiss, "you serve early and late, as of yore. Though I think I
never saw you in my house quite so belated as this."

Then all suddenly, finding himself in the company of three such good and
holy men, all looking so kindly upon him, Don Jordy burst into tears.

The Archbishop Doria stepped quickly up to him, saying, "Don Jordy,
friend of mine, you knew me and I knew you, when I was only your
neighbour and fellow-student, Jean Teres Doria of Elne. Tell me your
sorrow as you would have done, when we fought with burrs and pine-cones
in the groves--I for Elne, and you for the honour of Collioure."

"My mother," said Don Jordy, controlling himself with an effort--"she is
chased from her house by the familiars of the Holy Office. She and all
of us! Only she is old, feeble, pushed beyond her strength. She cannot
go farther, and must lie down and die, if the Bishop will not consent to
receive her into his palace."

And he went on to tell all the story of the Professor's coming, Don
Raphael's suit, and Claire's refusal--lastly, of the warning that had
been given concerning the action of the Inquisition.

It could easily be observed how, at that dread name, even the Archbishop
grew grave. There was no power comparable to that of the Holy Office in
Spain--because the Holy Office was only the King working secretly, doing
lawless things under cover of the ample robe of Mother Church.

But the quiet little Cordelier, the Doctor Ange, with his white skin and
tremulous bird-like hands, only smiled the sweeter as he listened.

"I fear me," he said, "that the Bishop's palace is too public a place
for your mother. Now, what think you? You have with her also your
brother, that learned professor of the Sorbonne, with whom it would
please me much to ravel out many a tangled web of high doctrine,
according to the last interpretation of Paris--why, there is in our new
Hous