"Yes," he said gently, when she had finished, "I too am of thy opinion, my child, for I have watched by this sick man’s side for many hours, and methinks truly he is a brave and loyal knight, with no such cruel smirch of treachery lying at his heart; but for all that, daughter, we have scarce known him for two days, and it may well be that we are deceived, for wherefore should Guillaume de Coray conceive so terrible a tale in falseness?" "Nay, that I know not," replied Gwennola, sighing, "except that he is false, father, false to the heart’s core, and speaketh lies as easily as he who is the father of them. Nay, father, reprove me not, for never husband of mine shall he be, by the grace of St Enora herself I swear it; rather would I die, far, far rather bury myself behind convent walls than marry a traitor and coward." "Nay, daughter," rebuked Father Ambrose, "talk not so wildly, though in the life of the convent there be much peace and happiness for those who find little without; but thou, my child," he added with a shrewd smile, "wert no more born to be a nun than to be the wife of a traitor. But see, the night grows apace, and methinks we do little good in speaking ill of thy kinsman; better it were to pray for the soul of this poor gentleman who dies with the morrow’s sun, or rather, that if it please the holy saints to alter so sad a destiny, to send succour to one whom we, at least, do look upon as innocent of this black crime whereof he is accused." "Pray for his soul?" murmured Gwennola with a sigh; then a half smile parted her lips. "Nay, father," she murmured, "surely ’twill be a fairer division between us if thou prayest for his soul and I for his body. But nay, look not reprovingly, dear father, but listen to the prayer of thy little Gwennola, who called thee hither to crave a favour, besides telling thee of this sad work of the morrow." "And that, my daughter?" questioned the old priest with a whimsical smile, well knowing the coaxing tones with which she pleaded. "That," she whispered, whilst the colour surged back into her pale cheeks, "is to bring hither Monsieur d’Estrailles, that I myself may tell him of his danger and—and bid him farewell, for I will not be present on the morrow to see a noble knight suffer such cruel injustice." For a moment Father Ambrose was silent, eyeing her gravely and thoughtfully. "Child," he said at last, "this knight is but a stranger who scarcely knoweth thee. Deemest thou it be seemly or maidenly on thy part thus to crave audience with such an one, alone, at night?" With crimson cheeks but undaunted eyes Gwennola faced the old man. "Nay, father," she said steadily, "deem me not unmaidenly. Hast ever found thy little Gwennola aught but discreet and jealous of her honour? Nay, father, had I known this poor knight better, I could not have craved such an interview, but seeing he is but a stranger whom—whom I pity, surely there were no harm!"