"Nay," said the old man sternly, "I will abide by what I have said. The Frenchman shall have justice, but no more—the nearest tree for the spy, and short shrift too, if he cannot bring good account of his presence here." Gwennola sighed. "He is no spy," she whispered to herself, but to her father she dared return no answer, but bent low over the beautiful bird attached to her wrist by a slender golden chain, to hide perchance the tears in her blue eyes rather than from any desire to gaze at her pet’s bright plumage, or count the tiny golden bells on its hood. So in silence they rode through the forest glades and up through the long avenue of whispering oaks where the sunshine of a June evening shed slanting rays of golden glory through the rustling foliage overhead. The Château de Mereac stood on the outskirts of the forest of Arteze, not many leagues distant from the little Breton town of Martigue. The country on this side of Rennes had from time immemorial been the debatable land between Brittany and her overweening sister France; countless feuds raged constantly between the peoples, such as were fought in the Middle Ages, and even later, along our own Scottish border, and every Breton eyed his French neighbour as a natural and implacable enemy. But, in the year 1491, this natural animosity had grown from a smouldering antagonism into active flame of bitter hatred; for some years past the red angel of war had stood between the two countries with a blood-stained sword in her hand. Ever since the accession of Charles VIII., the rich prize of Brittany had been coveted by his ambitious sister and gouvernante, Anne of Beaujeu, now Duchesse de Bourbon, in all but name mistress of France. French armies had from time to time devastated the domain, but still Brittany, stubborn, gallant, untameable, had resisted the greedy hand outstretched to seize her. With enthusiastic loyalty the Bretons had rallied round their little Duchess, left an orphan at the age of thirteen, to face the perils of her exalted position alone. Her beauty, her helplessness, but above all her courage, appealed to the love and chivalry of her indomitable people. It is true that amongst the great nobles there were traitors to her cause, waverers who proffered allegiance first to one side then the other, disappointed suitors, who, like the Comte d’Albret, vented his spleen at a child’s scorn by betraying his country; yet amongst the vast majority of her subjects Anne was worshipped, and her name inspired deeds of chivalry and devotion which had hitherto kept the all too greedy foe at bay. But her case was desperate, and well every Breton knew it; the armies of France might sweep across their borders at any moment, bringing destruction and devastation with them. What wonder that a Frenchman’s name was poison to a Breton’s ear? What wonder if those dwelling, as it were, under the shadow of the great and powerful