for weeping--not after the long night.

Behind her, she heard the sudden noise of the door being unlocked, and
she turned.

Laird Duncan of Duncan opened the door and wheeled himself out. He was
followed by a malodorous gust of vapor from the room he had just left.
Lady Duncan stared at him.

He looked older than he had last night, more haggard and worn, and
there was something in his eyes she did not like. For a moment he said
nothing. Then he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. When he
spoke, his voice sounded dazed.

"There is nothing to fear any more," he said. "Nothing to fear at
all."

* * * * *

The Reverend Father James Valois Bright, Vicar of the Chapel of
Saint-Esprit, had as his flock the several hundred inhabitants of the
Castle D'Evreux. As such, he was the ranking priest--socially, not
hierarchically--in the country. Not counting the Bishop and the
Chapter at the Cathedral, of course. But such knowledge did little
good for the Father's peace of mind. The turnout of the flock was
abominably small for its size--especially for week-day Masses. The
Sunday Masses were well attended, of course; Count D'Evreux was there
punctually at nine every Sunday, and he had a habit of counting the
house. But he never showed up on weekdays, and his laxity had allowed
a certain further laxity to filter down through the ranks.

The great consolation was Lady Alice D'Evreux. She was a plain, simple
girl, nearly twenty years younger than her brother, the Count, and
quite his opposite in every way. She was quiet where he was
thundering, self-effacing where he was flamboyant, temperate where he
was drunken, and chaste where he was--

Father Bright brought his thoughts to a full halt for a moment. He
had, he reminded himself, no right to make judgments of that sort. He
was not, after all, the Count's confessor; the Bishop was.

Besides, he should have his mind on his prayers just now.

He paused and was rather surprised to notice that he had already put
on his alb, amice, and girdle, and he was aware that his lips had
formed the words of the prayer as he had donned each of them.

_Habit_, he thought, _can be destructive to the contemplative
faculty_.

He glanced around the sacristy. His server, the young son of the Count
of Saint Brieuc, sent here to complete his education as a gentleman
who would some day be the King's Governor of one of the most
important counties in Brittany, w