id he go, and what did he do with my long cloak
and lace mantilla?" she demanded. "Were they a disguise to provide only
for his own safety--the coward?"

The miller flushed. Up till now he had sheltered himself behind the Abbe
John's express command to say nothing. Now he must speak, and this proud
girl must take that which she had brought on her own head. It was clear
to Jean-Marie, as it had been to numerous others, that she had no
heart. She was a block of ice, drifted from far northern seas.

"Well, since you will have it, I will tell you," he said, speaking
slowly and sullenly, "but do not blame me if the news proves unwelcome.
Jean d'Albret borrowed your cloak and mantilla so that he might let
himself be taken in your place--so as to give you--you--_you_--he cared
not for the others--time to escape from the familiars of the Inquisition
sent to take you!"

He nodded his head almost at each word and opened his hand as if
disengaging himself from further responsibility. He looked to see the
girl overwhelmed. But instead she rose, as it were, to the stature of a
goddess, her face flushed and glorious.

"Tell it me again," she said hoarsely, even as Valentine la Nina had
once pleaded to be told, "tell me again--he did that for me?"

"Aye, for you! Who else?" said the miller scornfully--"for whom does a
man do anything but for a silly girl not worth the trouble!"

She did not heed him.

"He went to the death for me--to save me--he did what none else could
have done--saying nothing about it, bidding them keep it from me, lest I
should know! Oh, oh!"

The miller turned away in disgust. He pronounced an anathema on the
hearts of women. But she wheeled him round and, laying her hands on both
his shoulders, flashed wet splendid eyes upon him, the like of which he
had never seen.

"Oh, I am glad--I am glad!" she cried; "I could kiss you for your news,
Jean-Marie!"

And she did so, her tears dropping on his hands.

"This thing I do not understand!" said the miller to himself, when, no
longer a prisoner, he left Claire to sink her brow into a
freshly-lavendered pillow in her own chamber.

And he never would know.

Yet Valentine la Nina would have done the same thing. For in their
hearts all women wish to be loved "like that."

The word is their own--and the voice in which they say it.

CHAPTER XLI.

"AND LAZARUS CAME FORTH!"

This was all of the most cheerful for John d'Albret. To be loved with
we