"I have no fear, mademoiselle," replied d’Estrailles, bowing low over her hand, "seeing that the light of your eyes would guide a man safely, however gloomy his path. Nay," he said gently, still holding her hand in his, "pardon me, mademoiselle, if I allow the gratitude of an overfull heart too free a speech, or that I speak to the betrothed of another of what should remain for all time the secret of my heart." "Nay," she said, "monsieur has already spoken too much of gratitude for a service which after all was but a duty; though," she added softly, as she withdrew her hand, "as for being betrothed to Monsieur de Coray, it is a thing no more to be spoken of; a de Mereac mates not with a murderer, monsieur, least of all the murderer of a brother; methinks rather the convent walls shall find shelter for one whose life seems destined to be shrouded in so much of sorrow." "Nay," said d’Estrailles, still detaining her hand, "fairest lady, speak not of convent walls; too much of sunshine dwells in those tender eyes to be quenched in the gloomy grave of a convent life. Believe me, troubles are but as passing clouds, which come but to make the sun more joyous when it shines again, and methinks that very surely behind the clouds the sunshine of true love awaits one so gracious and beautiful; happy knight is he who shall inspire it: nay, could I but dream that such destiny might be mine for but one instant, it would be verily the opening of the gates of Paradise." "Nay, monsieur," she laughed softly, a roguish dimple deepening in her cheek, though her eyes grew tender as they looked half shyly into his. "The gates of such a Paradise are ever on the latch for the gallant and the brave." And before he could reply, she had slipped her hand away and was gone, flitting like some dark shadow from out of the forest shade and across the little bridge which led through the orchard to the outer postern of the château, where Job still gazed in vague fascination towards the darkening sky with watchful ears and an anxious heart. *CHAPTER VI* Again at early morn Mademoiselle de Mereac walked in the château gardens with her maiden by her side. It was the same book of hours over which her head was bent in seeming devotion, whilst one hand strayed listlessly over the black rosary she wore; but the devotions were, alas! but in the seeming, the words and illuminations which danced before her eyes conveyed not the slightest intelligence to the reader’s mind. How strange it was that only yesterday she had paced up and down this very path, read the same words, viewed the same flowers, breathed the same air, and yet between that day and this a whole lifetime seemed to yawn!