It may have been that even Gwennola’s heart half failed her as she sank on her knees in the dimly lighted chapel of the castle. Wrapped in a long hooded cloak, she might well have passed for a shadow amongst the shadows which the moonlight flung around. Involuntarily the young girl crossed herself as she watched the cold, clear beams which fell long and pale across the altar, streaming down in flickering waves of light towards where she knelt in one of the stalls; for, high-born as she was, the superstitions of the day ran riot in her mind, and well she knew the baneful influence of the moon on the destiny of the Breton, and yet—as she argued to herself—the evil omen of the ghostly light might be averted, seeing that he whom she would fain succour was no Breton; and with the thought came others, more mocking and bewildering. Why did she thus dare brave her father’s anger, and outrage her maiden modesty for the sake of a stranger and an enemy? The burning blushes which overspread her cheeks at the thought of the plan she had conceived might have convinced her, but the mad whirl of her mind refused to be analysed too closely. In vain she argued with herself that it was but her own keen sense of justice, so certain was she that the tale of Guillaume de Coray was false. But why should it be false? That she could not reply to, except by the illogical, but all-convincing, sense of her woman’s intuition. A false quantity that in a hall of justice. Gwennola shuddered as she felt the frailty of such an argument, shuddered as she saw how fast the net of fate had immeshed this stranger. There was a little sob in her throat as she bowed her head in her hands, a sob which, like her deeper thoughts, she refused to analyse. Surely it was but a note of pity for an innocent man whom jealous hatred or some passion she could not divine was condemning to death? A hand laid on her shoulder roused her, and with a little frightened cry she sprang to her feet, but it was only Father Ambrose, that good father who had known and loved her ever since she had first lisped out baby confessions of infantine sin and wickedness at his knee. Yes, it had been a happy thought to send for him, though for his own good she must deceive him as to her intentions. "The hour is late, my daughter," said the old priest gently. "What wouldest thou with me, child? Surely ’tis no time," he added with a smile, "even for confessions?" "Nay, my father," she said softly, "’tis no confession, but perchance more of pity for one unjustly condemned to death that moves me to crave thy help." "To death?" he echoed, glancing keenly at her. "Nay, daughter, but what hath chanced? and who in the château of thy gallant father may dare to condemn unjustly?" "Nay," she replied, "listen, my father, and thou shalt judge for thyself," and in a few hurried sentences she told her tale. Father Ambrose listened with bent brows, narrowly watching the fair face of the narrator as she spoke.