"At least it has rid us of an unwelcome intruder," smiled Gwennola. "See, Marie, let us gather some violets and then return to Mass; I would fain demand of the good father how his patient is this morning. Last night he feared fever from the wound in his side where the poor knight’s own sword pierced him; only a hair’s-breadth more and it would have entered his lung. I must in truth offer three candles at the shrine of our Blessed Lady for sparing so gallant a knight. Think then, my Marie, a hair’s-breadth and he had been no more!" The maid smiled slyly. "The saints be praised, mistress," she replied, adding beneath her breath that the hair’s-breadth might well have been passed had the accident befallen _some_ knights, whereat both laughed and fell to picking the violets with light hearts. It was indeed a fair dawn, and the fragrance and sweetness of it seemed to have entered the turret room where Henri d’Estrailles lay, with the presence of the young châtelaine of the castle.. No fleeting vision this morning, but verily a living presence, stately, smiling, beautiful as she stood by his side, inquiring of Father Ambrose how his patient fared. In spite of her childish appearance—she was scarce seventeen summers—Gwennola bore herself with all the stately airs befitting to the lady of a great house, for, since her mother’s death, she had filled the post of châtelaine at Mereac, and had grown, it must be confessed, from a spoilt child to a wilful maiden, whose self-importance sat so sweetly upon her that her father could find no word of chiding for his oft-times wayward darling. Only, alas! in one matter had he proved firm, and that concerned her betrothal to her kinsman, and even Gwennola, indulged as she was beyond the custom of those stern days of parental authority, dared not oppose herself against the decree, though, with all the strenuous force of her womanhood, she would fain have striven against it, had she dared, ever more too as the months showed her a lover so contrary to all her maiden dreams. How well she knew that for all his empty phrases and mocking vows this kinsman of hers had no love in his heart for her; his very endearments were an insult against which her hot, impetuous young nature revolted. Bitter were the tears shed in secret, and none to see or comfort her but Father Ambrose and her maiden, Marie Alloadec, her trusted friend and companion. And, after all, it was surprising how ill they comprehended, these two. The good father would strive to comfort her with a homily on the necessity of obedience and submission to Heaven, and would only shake his head gravely when she replied, weeping, that Heaven could have no share in breaking a maiden’s heart, or else suggest, half hesitatingly, that perhaps her father might listen to her entreaties to enter the cloister. But this latter suggestion found small favour in the eyes of one whose warm young life shrank back appalled from the cold vocation of a nun’s