the name of Jesus (as the custom is)--a still,
meditative, almost saintly man. Upon the lap of his furred robe (for,
after all, it was a sunshine with a certain shrewd wintriness in it)
lay an illuminated copy of the Holy Gospels; and sometimes as he
listened to the choir-boys singing, he glanced therein, and read of
the little children to whom belongs the kingdom. Upon occasion he
lifted the book also, and looked with pleasure at the pictured cherubs
who cheered the way of the Master Jerusalemwards with strewn palm
leaves and shouted hosannas.

And ever sweeter and sweeter fell the music upon his ear, till
suddenly, like the silence after a thunderclap, the organ ceased to
roll, the choir was silent, and out of the quiet rose a single
voice--that of Laurence the Scot singing in a tenor of infinite
sweetness the words of blessing:

"_Suffer the little children to come unto Me,
And forbid them not;
For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven._"

And as the boy's voice welled out, clear and thrilling as the song of
an upward pulsing lark, the tears ran down the face of Gilles de Retz.

God knows why. Perhaps it was some glint of his own innocent
childhood--some half-dimmed memory of his happily dead mother.
Perhaps--but enough. Gilles de Laval de Retz went up the turret stair
to find Poitou and Gilles de Sille on guard on either side the portals
which closed his chamber.

"Is all ready?" he asked, though the tears were scarcely dry on his
cheeks.

They bowed before him to the ground.

"All is ready, lord and master," they said as with one voice.

"And Prelati?"

"He is in waiting."

"And La Meffraye," he went on, "has she arrived?"

"La Meffraye has arrived," they said; "all goes fortunately."

"Good!" said Gilles de Retz, and shedding his furred monkish cloak
carelessly from off his shoulders, he went within.

Poitou and Gilles de Sille both reached to catch the mantle ere it
fell. As they did so their hands met and touched. And at the meeting
of each other's flesh they started and drew apart. Their eyes
encountered furtively and were instantly withdrawn. Then, having hung
up the cloak, with pallid countenances and lips white and tremulous,
they slowly followed the marshal within.

* * * * *

"Sybilla de Thouars, as you are in my power, so I bid you work my
will!"

It was the deep, stern voice of the Marshal de Retz which spoke. The
Lady Sybilla lay back in a