But in her distress and excitement even prayer proved small solace to the impatient spirit of the unhappy maiden. To and fro she paced with all the restless agony of a newly caged, wild creature, now weeping, now crying to Marie to aid her, though in what she neither said nor seemed to know. But presently the paroxysm of her passion passed, and after kneeling for a lengthy space before the carved figure of her patron saint, she rose and smiled more calmly into Marie’s anxious face. "I was distraught," she said simply, "methinks with very weariness as well as grief. Now go, Marie, leave me to compose myself in sleep; last night I rested little and my eyes are heavy for need of slumber. Go then, little one, and glean for me what news thou canst anent the return of my father; ’twill be a fruitless quest, I wot well, on which they ride, seeing that the holy saints have him I love in their keeping." Her foster-sister, with wide eyes of wonder, not unmingled with dismay, echoed her last words. Gwennola smiled, and though her colour rose, she replied quietly— "Nay, Marie, thou art over-bold, wench, and yet, ah! there is none other to whom I may confess it, and by the love we bear each other, my Marie, well I know my secret is safe with thee. Yes," she added softly, whilst a glad light stole into her tired eyes; "yes, it is true, my Marie, I love him, this noble Frenchman, who is a true and noble knight, neither traitor nor murderer, but my faithful servant and lover." "But," stammered Marie, forgetful of aught in her sheer amazement, "he is a Frenchman, mademoiselle! an enemy! one who would take away liberty from us of Brittany and bend our necks in the yoke of servitude." "Tush, little foolish one!" replied her mistress severely. "Thou pratest of that of which thou knowest naught. Indeed," she added, with an air of knowledge which sat quaintly on her childish head, "the love of Breton maid to French knight may well be, since men say our Duchess herself would fain have given her heart to the Prince of Orleans, had he not been already wed." "Nay," murmured Marie, abashed, yet persistent, "but Madame the Duchess is the bride of the noble King of the Romans." "That goeth not to say that she loveth him," retorted Gwennola wisely; "indeed, poor Duchess! how can she, seeing she hath never seen him? And ill is it to wed without love, be a maid queen or peasant wench; and verily I will have none of it on such terms, though my father command me to take the veil in choice. Ah, Marie!" she cried, stretching out her hands towards the hesitating girl, "thou wilt help me, wilt thou not? For I love him, this poor, persecuted knight, Frenchman though he be—ay, and shall love him and none other for all time: and love is sweet, my Marie, though as yet mayhap thou hast not tasted of its sweetness; but when it cometh——"