"And what might the remedy be?"

"Death."

"What is your religious name, Monsieur?" asked the Chevalier, strangely
subdued.

"I am Father Jacques, _protege_ of the kindly Chaumonot. But I am
known to my brothers and friends as Brother Jacques. And you,
Monsieur, are doubtless connected with the court."

"Yes. I am known as the Chevalier du Cevennes, under De Guitaut, in
her Majesty's Guards."

"Cevennes?" the priest repeated, ruminating. "Why, that is the name of
a mountain range in the South."

"So it is. I was born in that region, and it pleased me to bear
Cevennes as a name of war. I possess a title, but I do not assume it;
I simply draw its revenues." The Chevalier scowled at his buckles, as
if some disagreeable thought had come to him.

The priest remarked the change in the soldier's voice; it had grown
harsh and repellent. "Monsieur, I proceed from Rouen to Rochelle; are
you familiar with that city?"

"Rochelle? Oh, indifferently."

The Jesuit plucked at his lips for a space, as if hesitant to break the
silence. "Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Perigny?"

The Chevalier whirled about. "The Marquis de Perigny? Ah, yes; I have
heard of that gentleman. Why do you ask?"

"It is said that while he is a bad Catholic, he is generous in his
charities. Father Chaumonot and I intend to apply to him for
assistance. Mazarin has not been very liberal. Ah, how little they
dream of the length and breadth and riches of this France across the
sea! Monsieur le Marquis is rich?"

"Rich; but a bad Catholic truly." The Chevalier laughed without
merriment. "The marquis and charity? Why not oil and water? They mix
equally well."

"You do not seem quite friendly toward the Marquis?" suggested Brother
Jacques.

"No; I am not particularly fond of Monsieur le Marquis," patting the
pommel of his sword.

"Monsieur le Marquis has wronged you?" asked the priest, a fire leaping
into his eyes.

"It is a private affair, Monsieur," coldly.

"Pardon me!" Brother Jacques made a gesture of humility. He rolled
the bread crumbs into a ball which he dropped into the bowl. Presently
he pushed aside the bowl and rose, his long black cassock falling to
his ankles. He drew his rosary through his belt and put on his
shovel-shaped hat.

Again the Chevalier's attention was drawn toward the mutilated hand.

"The pastimes of savages, Monsieur," Brother Jacques said grimly,
holding out his hand for inspec