"Chanced?" she echoed innocently, cutting short his speech with a gay little laugh. "Nay, mon ami, naught hath chanced to my knowledge this morn, save that I have made this chaplet of flowers to crown the head of wisdom, justice, and mercy." And she made as though she would have flung him the daisy wreath. "A truce to such folly," he snarled. "Well enough you know, maiden, of what is in my mind, and dost strive therefore to hide knowledge behind the mask of foolery." "Nay," she cried again, her blue eyes flashing at him, though she still smiled. "Truly, I forgot my reverence to so illustrious a personage. Marie, my child, thy best curtsy to monsieur, the high chief executioner and hangman of Mereac." And she swept a deep and mocking obeisance, her eyes still on his face. "Ay," he retorted, scowling at her this time without disguise. "But better the executioner of a foul traitor and murderer than a——" She checked him with an imperious gesture. "Have a care, monsieur," she said in a low voice, which trembled nevertheless with anger as she read the insult in his eyes. "Have a care lest I tell my father your words, ay, and not only of words, monsieur, but of deeds done in that dark wood at St Aubin du Cormier." He laughed aloud, though there was an ugly look in his eyes. "Your opportunity has already come then, mademoiselle," he replied sneeringly, "for your father hath bidden me summons you to his presence." Again she swept him a curtsy, but this time with statelier grace, as she turned and walked onwards alone towards the château, ignoring altogether his proffered arm. Her face had grown paler, but her blue eyes were bright and undaunted as her spirit rose to the ordeal before her; perhaps it was steeled as she glanced wistfully towards, the forest and stood once more in fancy under yonder oak tree, looking up with swiftly beating heart into dark eyes which told their tale so far more eloquently than their owner’s halting words. The Sieur de Mereac stood erect in the midst of the great hall, his tall form towering there like some giant figure of old as he swept an eagle glance over the little group of retainers who stood, scared and panic-stricken, in the background, and whom he waved aside with an imperious gesture as his daughter, as erect as himself, with her face upraised, pale, but proud, came slowly forward, curtsying silently as she stood before him, but without attempting to embrace or smile at him, as she had ever done before. Unconsciously the old man sighed as his stern glance met hers. Was this his little Gwennola?—the child with the ruddy curls and laughing eyes, who so short a time since would scramble up on to his knee, and, laying her shining head against his breast, plead with all a spoilt child’s boldness for a tale of his battles with the cruel French.