rch, and another a schism?"

But that was just what nobody could tell her. Hawise leaped the chasm
deftly by declaring it an improper question. Eva said, "_Si bete_!" and
declined to say more.

"Well, I may be a fool," said Beatrice bluntly: "but I do not think you
are much better if you cannot tell me."

"Of course I could tell thee, if I chose!" answered Eva, with lofty
scorn.

"Then why dost thou not?" was the unanswerable reply.

Eva did not deign to respond. But when Bruno next appeared, Beatrice
put her question.

"The Church is what Christ builds on Himself: a schism is bred in man's
brain, contrary to holy Scripture."

In saying which, Bruno only quoted Bishop Grosteste.

"But, seeing men are fallible, how then can any human system claim to be
at all times The Church?" asked Beatrice.

"The true Church is not a human system at all," said he.

"Father, Beatrice actually fancies that the Archbishop of Antioch could
excommunicate the holy Father!" observed Hawise in tones of horror.

"I suppose any authority can excommunicate those below him, in the
Church visible," said Bruno, calmly: "in the invisible Jerusalem above,
which is the mother of us all, none excommunicates but God. `Every
branch in Me, not fruit-bearing, He taketh it away.' My daughters, it
would do us more good to bear that in mind, than to blame either the
Pope or the Archbishop."

And he walked away, as was his wont when he had delivered his sentence.

That afternoon, the Countess sent for Beatrice and Doucebelle to her own
bower. They found her seated by the window, with unusually idle hands,
and an expression of sore disturbance on her fair, serene face.

"There is bad news come, my damsels," she said, when the girls had made
their courtesies. "And I do not know how to tell my Magot. Perhaps one
of you might manage it better than I could. And she had better be told,
for she is sure to hear it in some way, and I would fain spare the child
all I can."

"About Sir Richard the Earl, Lady?" asked Beatrice.

"Yes, of course. He is married, Beatrice."

"To whom, Lady?" asked Beatrice, calmly but Doucebelle uttered an
ejaculation under her breath.

"To Maud, daughter of Sir John de Lacy, the Earl of Lincoln. It is no
fault of his, poor boy! The Lord King would have it so. And the King
has made a good thing of it, for I hear that the Earl of Lincoln has
given him above three thousand gold pennies to have the marriage, an