No more was spoken as the three hurried swiftly onwards. Job almost bearing Yvon in his stalwart arms, whilst Gwennola held aloft the flaring torch. A strange trio truly the yellow light gleamed on: the sick man’s thin, emaciated features and drooping form; the thickly-set, dark-browed Breton soldier with his honest, wondering eyes and bushy beard; and the slender, dark-robed figure with pale, agonized face, eager eyes, and a tumbled mass of red-gold curls, from which the hood had fallen. No word was spoken even as they passed the outer postern, where the wondering Marie still held impatient guard, but swiftly onwards they sped through the darkness of the little chapel, till they stood at length to pause and listen in the shadow of the tapestries which hung around the great hall. The flaring light of the torches fastened in the iron cressets on the walls revealed a strange scene. By the long table sat the Sieur de Mereac, and close to his side Guillaume de Coray, the former, stern, implacable judge, the latter, mocking, triumphant accuser; in the foreground, a small group of soldiers surrounding the tall, slender figure of the condemned man, his hands bound tightly behind him, even now on his way to execution, and by his side the black-robed form of the old confessor. Although d’Estrailles’ back was towards them, those standing there in the shadows could see the proud bearing of his mien as he listened to his judges last words. "Henri d’Estrailles," said the old man sternly, "you are found guilty and condemned to die; murderer and traitor that you are, the death of a felon is fitting ending to such a life. My son’s life you spared not to take by foul and cruel means, and still more, in reward for the hospitality I all unwittingly bestowed upon you, you have robbed me of a daughter’s soul. Coward and villain! have you made your peace with God?—if so, it were well, for even in death the hand of every true and upright man shall be against you." "Nay, my son," interrupted Father Ambrose gently, "beware how you pass unjust sentence on a man whom my soul telleth me is innocent. Nay, frown not, but listen to the warning of an old man, who from early youth hath learnt to read men’s hearts. Have I not but now listened to the confessions of one about to pass to the judgment of One with Whom no deception is possible? and in the face of eternity itself would he look back upon his fellow-men with lies upon his lips? I tell thee, no, Sieur de Mereac, no, a hundred times! And so I tell thee, that having read the secrets of this man’s soul, I find him innocent of the crime whereof he is accused." "Nay, my father," interrupted de Coray with a sneer, "you speak well, but, bethink you, it was _I_ who saw this man strike the very blow which he so glibly denies; _I_ who saw him creep so treacherously behind my poor kinsman—the noble young Yvon—and cleave him from brow to chin ere he could turn to see his foe; _I_——" "Liar!"