as not violent under her despair, but went on crying
very miserably, saying, 'Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?'

'God knoweth,' says the abbot, 'this was a bad case; but I had a good
thought for it.' He began to speak of Richard, of what he had done and
what would live to do. 'They say that the strain of the fiend is in that
race, my dear,' he told her. 'They say that Geoffrey Grey-Gown had
intercourse with a demon. And certain it is that in Richard, as in all
his brothers, that stinging grain lives in the blood. For testimony look
at their cognisance of leopards, and advise yourself, whether any house
in Christendom ever took that device but had known familiarly the devil
in some shape? And look again at the deeds of these princes. What turned
the young king to riot and death, and Geoffrey to rapine and death? What
else will turn John Sansterre to treachery and death, or our tall
Richard to violence and death? Nothing else, nothing else. But before
he dies you shall see him glorious--'

'He is glorious already,' said Jehane, wiping her eyes.

'Keep him so, then,' said the abbot testily, who did not love to have
his periods truncated.

'If I go back to Saint-Pol,' said Jehane, 'I shall fall in with Gilles
de Gurdun, who has sworn to have me.'

'Well,' replied the abbot, 'why should he not? Does he receive the
assurance of your brother the Count?'

Jehane shook her head. 'No, no. My brother wished me to be my lord
Richard's. But Gilles needs no assurance. He will buy my marriage from
the King of France. He is very sufficient.'

'Hath he substance? Hath he lands? Is he noble, then, Jehane?'

'He hath knighthood, a Church fief--oh, enough!'

'God forgive me if I did amiss,' writes the abbot here; 'but seeing her
in a melting mood, dewy, soft, and adorable, I kissed that beautiful
person, and she left the Chapel of Saint Remy somewhat comforted.'

Not only so, but the same day she left the Dark Tower with her brother
Count Eustace, and rode towards Gisors and Saint-Pol-la-Marche. Nothing
she could do could be shamefully done, because of her silence, and the
high head upon which she carried it; yet the Count of Saint-Pol, when he
heard her story, sitting bulky in his chair (like a stalled red bull),
did his best to put shame upon her, that so he might cover his own
bitterness. It was Eustace, a generous ardent youth in those days, who
saved her from most of Eudo's wrath by drawing it upon himself.

The Count