"Yvon! Yvon!" she moaned. "Ah! why may I not die? Why may I not die? I may not ask thee to forgive me, but oh! for the sake of our sweet Lady of Pity, curse me not!" "Curse thee?" he muttered faintly, "nay, myself the rather, seeing I love thee still, and as truly as ever; and yet the little Gwennola——" A smothered sob choked him, and Diane knew that though love stood there calling to her with outstretched arms of forgiveness, there lay between them the irrevocable shadow of a sister’s blood. "Oh, merciful heavens!" she cried, clasping her hands, wringing them together in a paroxysm of grief and entreaty, "grant that they may be in time!" "In time?" faintly whispered the sick man; "in time?" "Ay," she sobbed, "ay, Yvon, there is yet a hope, for Father Ambrose and Alain Fanchonic ride at full speed to Martigue to proclaim her innocence." "And—and thou hast told Father Ambrose all?" he murmured, and the thin hand on the coverlet strayed once more nearer to the bent figure at his side. "All—all!" she cried passionately; "for thy sake, Yvon, for thy sake—and for love’s!" * * * * * "For love’s sake!" Yes, that was the goad which added wings to the good horse’s feet as Alain Fanchonic, with Father Ambrose, seated on a pillion behind him clasping the stalwart man-at-arm’s waist, rode forth into the tempest which shrieked raging through the forest. A wild ride, with the wind beating in their faces, and dead leaves whirling in a very hurricane around them; but neither of the two had thought for wind or weather, for ever before their eyes stood the slender figure of a young girl bound to a burning stake with arms outstretched in pleading, whilst her voice cried to them to hasten to her aid. It is true that Alain Fanchonic, grandson of the old dame upon whom Gwennola so often bestowed her bounty, had crossed himself in devout horror when he heard the story of the Brown Friar and the waxen image; but so severely had his grandmother upbraided him for his credulity in believing such slander against one of Heaven’s own angels, that he had lived in a state of doubt and horror during the few days which had elapsed since Gwennola’s arrest and condemnation. So that when Father Ambrose had come to him, telling him to saddle Barbe, the fleetest mare in the stables, and ride with him to Martigue to save his mistress and proclaim her innocence, he had lost little time in complying, muttering curses and prayers alike, whilst the tears ran down his brown cheeks as he sprang into the saddle, and, with the good priest clinging on for dear life behind, dashed out, across the drawbridge and away through the forest so madly that surely Providence only could have upheld the grey mare’s feet as she sped along the narrow, dangerous path. But not once did she stumble as she galloped swiftly along, and Father Ambrose felt his heart beat with joy and gladness as they gradually neared their goal. Yet not without