"A foolish whim," he retorted shortly, "and one that I trow well will fade fast enough when this Frenchman hath taken his departure, which, thanks be to Mary! he doth speedily. I would sooner the maid became a dismal nun, all prayers and melancholy, than the wife of a French robber." "Truly to be a bride of Heaven is a happy and exalted vocation," said Father Ambrose reprovingly, "though," he added, with a twinkle in his keen old eyes, "methinks scarcely fitted for our Gwennola." "Nay," replied de Mereac bluffly, "the maid hath too high a spirit and too warm blood to endure the cramping life of a convent cell. A noble maid, father, a noble maid, and one who shall be as nobly wed. I have thought of young Alain de Plöernic or Count Maurice de la Ferrière, both worthy mates for the dove of Arteze, who, alas!" he added with a shrug of his shoulders, "was so nigh to falling a prey to yonder bloody hawk, whose neck I would fain wring ere the morrow’s sun. False caitiff! Nay, father, speak not to me of forgiveness, when I remember yon lying tongue and think that I might have given my daughter’s hand into the red one which had thought to slay my son." "Peace, Gaspard," said the priest soothingly, as de Mereac leapt from his seat to stride wrathfully up and down the hall, "and rather than vengeance think of the mercies vouchsafed to thee in that thou hast son and daughter safely restored to thine arms." "Restored!" cried de Mereac bitterly. "Nay, Ambrose, think of yon poor lad’s face and drooping form, all haggard and terrible, and recall the morning when young Yvon rode forth so blithely across the bridge, calling back to me, as I lay, cursing my ill luck in being unable to move with rheumatic pains, that he would bring back our banner in triumph with fresh laurels twined around it." "It may yet be that he will recover," said Father Ambrose gently. "But now, I left him sleeping peacefully; he is young, and life still runs swiftly in his veins; here at Mereac, with love and friends surrounding him, we may well hope to blot out those years which would altogether have crazed one less strong and courageous." "My poor Yvon! my poor son!" moaned the father. "My curses on these, his all but murderers. Nay, father, reprove me not, for curse them I must and will; I grow verily weary of delay when I think of de Coray even now escaping my justice. Nay, father, your pardon, for whilst I thus rave I forget to ask after thy hurts. Thou art still pale and worn; methinks it were not well to rise so soon from thy couch." "Nay," said the priest with a smile, "’twas but a cracked pate, which truly somewhat acheth still, but which I trow will soon mend. Better a pain in the head, my son, than one at the heart; therefore listen to thy old friend’s advice, and pray rather for thine enemies’ souls than for the destruction of their bodies."