even to hell--that I might escape for ever from La
Meffraye."

His hand fumbled a moment at the closely buttoned collar of his blue
blouse. Then he succeeded in undoing it and showed his neck. From chin
to bosom it was a mass of ghastly bites, some partially healed, more
of them recent and yet raw, while the skin, so far as the three Scots
could observe it, was covered with a hieroglyphic of scratches, claw
marks, and, as it seemed, the bites of some fierce wild beast.

"Great Master of Heaven!" cried James Douglas. "What hell hound hath
done this to you?"

"The wife of my bosom," quoth very grimly Caesar the cripple.

"A good evening to you, gentlemen all," said a soft and winning voice
from the doorway.

At the sound the old man staggered, reeled, and would have swayed into
the fire had not Sholto seized him and dragged him out upon the floor.
All rose to their feet.

In the doorway of the cottage stood an old woman, small, smiling,
delicate of feature. She looked benignly upon them and continued to
smile. Her hair and her eyes were her most noticeable features. The
former was abundant and hung loosely about the woman's brow and over
her shoulders in wisps of a curious greenish white, the colour almost
of mouldy cheese, while, under shaggy white eyebrows, her large eyes
shone piercing and green as emerald stones on the hand of some dusky
monarch of the Orient.

The old woman it was who spoke first, before any of the men could
recover from their surprise.

"My husband," she said, still calmly smiling upon them, "my poor
husband has doubtless been telling you his foolish tales. The saints
have permitted him to become demented. It is a great trial to a poor
woman like me, but the will of heaven be done!"

The three Scots stood silent and transfixed, for it was an age of
belief. But the cripple lay back on the settle where Sholto had placed
him, his lips white and gluey. And as he lay he muttered audibly, "La
Meffraye! La Meffraye! Oh, what will become of poor Caesar Martin this
night!"

CHAPTER XLVIII

THE MERCY OF LA MEFFRAYE

It was a strange night that which the three Scots spent in the little
house standing back from the street of Saint Philbert on the gloomy
edges of the forest of Machecoul. The hostess, indeed, was unweariedly
kind and brought forth from her store many dainties for their
delectation. She talked with touching affection of her poor husband,
afflicted with these strange fits