was but a means to an end. Such love and tenderness as were in him
had gone out to the gentle wife he had put away from him, and had
died--of Clotilde.

So Charles appraised her and found her, although but a means, very
beautiful. Only the Bishop turned away his head.

"Joan," said Charles, "do you know why I have sent for you?"

The girl looked down. But, although she quivered, it was not with
fright.

"I do, sire."

Something of a sardonic smile played around the _seigneur's_ mouth. The
butterfly came too quietly to the net.

"We are but gloomy folk here, rough soldiers and few women. It has been
in my mind--" Here he saw the Bishop's averted head, and scowled. What
had been in his mind he forgot. He said: "I would have you come
willingly, or not at all."

At that she lifted her head and looked at him. "You know I will come,"
she said. "I can do nothing else, but I do not come willingly, my lord.
You are asking too much."

The Bishop turned his head hopefully.

"Why?"

"You are a hard man, my lord."

If she meant to anger him, she failed. They were not soft days. A man
hid such tenderness as he had under grimness, and prayed in the churches
for phlegm.

"I am a fighting man. I have no gentle ways." Then a belated memory came
to him. "I give no tenderness and ask none. But such kindness as you
have, lavish on the child Clotilde. She is much alone."

With the mention of Clotilde's name came a vision: instead of this
splendid peasant wench he seemed to see the graceful and drooping figure
of the woman he had put away because she had not borne him a son. He
closed his eyes, and the girl, taking it for dismissal, went away.

When he opened them there were only the fire and the dogs about it, and
the Bishop, who was preparing to depart.

"I shall not stay, my lord," said the Bishop. "The thing is desecration.
No good can come from such a bond. It is Christmas and the Truce of God,
and yet you do this evil thing."

So the Bishop went, muffled in a cloak, and mantled with displeasure.
And with him, now that Clotilde had fled, went all that was good and
open to the sun, from the grey castle of Charles the Fair.

At evening Joan came again, still afoot, but now clad in her best. She
came alone, and the men at the gates, instructed, let her in. She gazed
around the courtyard with its burden of grain that had been crushed out
of her people below, with its loitering soldiers and cackling fowls, and
she shiv