That was the conclusion they promptly arrived at, and however
greatly they might be dismayed by the appearance of this ally of
Florimond's, yet the conclusion heartened them anew. But scarce had they
arrived at it when Monsieur de Garnache's crisp voice came swiftly to
dispel it.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," it said, and Fortunio shivered at the sound,
for it was the voice he had heard but a few hours ago, "I welcome the
opportunity of resuming our last night's interrupted sword-play." And he
advanced deliberately.

Marius's sword had fallen away from his brother's, and the two
combatants stood pausing. Fortunio without more ado made for the door.
But Garnache crossed the intervening space in a bound.

"Turn!" he cried. "Turn, or I'll put my sword through your back. The
door shall serve you presently, but it is odds that it will need a
couple of men to bear you through it. Look to your dirty skin!"

CHAPTER XXII. THE OFFICES OF MOTHER CHURCH

A couple of hours after the engagement in the Marquis de Condillac's
apartments at the Sanglier Noir at La Rochette, Monsieur de Garnache,
attended only by Rabecque, rode briskly into France once more and made
for the little town of Cheylas, which is on the road that leads down to
the valley of the Isere and to Condillac. But not as far as the township
did he journey. On a hill, the slopes all cultivated into an opulent
vineyard, some two miles east of Cheylas, stood the low, square grey
building of the Convent of Saint Francis. Thither did Monsieur de
Garnache bend his horse's steps. Up the long white road that crept
zigzag through the Franciscans' vineyards rode the Parisian and his
servant under the welcome sunshine of that November afternoon.

Garnache's face was gloomy and his eyes sad, for his thoughts were all
of Valerie, and he was prey to a hundred anxieties regarding her.

They gained the heights at last, and Rabecque got down to beat with his
whip upon the convent gates.

A lay-brother came to open, and in reply to Garnache's request that he
might have a word with the Father Abbot, invited him to enter.

Through the cloisters about the great quadrangle, where a couple of
monks, their habits girt high as their knees, were busy at gardeners'
work, Garnache followed his conductor, and up the steps to the Abbot's
chamber.

The master of the Convent' of Saint Francis of Cheylas a tall, lean
man with an ascetic face, prominent cheekbones, and a nose not unlike