The hour of noon was approaching, already a bell tolled forth from the church close by, and in the market-place the people thronged so closely that they trod one on another in their eagerness to behold. By the gate Job Alloadec and his men waited, with an eye towards the market-place as the minutes crept by. In their prison cell two girls knelt in prayer. Marie was weeping, her head resting on her mistress’s shoulder; but Gwennola was calm, a shadowy smile even seemed to flicker around her mouth as she raised her face towards the faint light which struggled in through the narrow slit above them. The tolling bell, the roar of the crowd, came faintly to them, and sent fresh shudderings through Marie’s frame. "Courage, child," whispered Gwennola; "remember we are innocent, and the Holy Mother will not forsake us even in this our extremity. For myself I have no fears; if death indeed be our lot, grace shall be sent to strengthen us for the trial, and I will pray to die as Gwennola de Mereac should die, defying her accusers to the last. But I have hope so strong within my breast that it seemeth I can take little thought for death. Dry then those tears, my Marie; look into my eyes and fear not;—I tell thee it is life, not death, before us." But though her foster-sister struggled bravely with her emotions, sobs of terror still shook her as at length their prison door was flung open and their guards appeared. A yell of fury greeted them as, a little later, the two unfortunate girls, tightly bound, were led forth to their doom. Yet, even as the outcry died, a fresh and more compassionate murmur arose from many at sight of the captives. Innocence indeed seemed written on every lineament of the faces turned towards their enemies, and men and women pressed forward with exclamations in which pity mingled with admiration and indignation against the sentence about to be executed. But the guards around kept back the populace as the victims were fastened to the stakes prepared for them. Yet, even as the executioner stepped forward with lighted torch, a loud shout arose, the thunder of horses’ hoofs was heard at the gate, and, turning, all beheld a strong body of soldiery riding at full speed towards the market-place. "Do your work, knave, and quickly!" shouted a horseman, who, with his hat drawn closely over his eyes, had stood close to the centre of the crowd, near to the stakes. "Delay not an instant—fire the faggots!" Recognising the voice, Gwennola turned, and, from her awful position looked into the face of Guillaume de Coray. "Fire the faggots!" cried he again imperatively to the man, who stood, with flaming torch, hesitating as he watched, first the changing faces of the populace, and then the soldiers who were advancing at a gallop. "The French! the French are upon us!" shouted a voice from the crowd, and in an instant panic reigned. Yet still the guard around the stake drew close, the executioner still hesitated,—it was not too late.