"It is cruel," she murmured softly, "that thou wilt not believe my word, but it is as Guillaume warned me, for oft he hath told me with sorrow of the hatred you bear him, sweet Gwennola. But no," she cried, springing from her seat and clasping her slim hands together with a pretty little air of supplication, "thou shalt be convinced, fair cousin. See, I swear to thee it is true. Wilt thou not believe me?" "If Monsieur de Coray were innocent, why did he fly?" demanded Gwennola inexorably. "Fly?" echoed Diane innocently. "Nay, cousin, scarcely fly! That he left in haste it is true; yet not so much from fear as from another sin—shall I confess it?" Her arch smile was met by Gwennola’s grave, set face, which, however, seemed in no way to abash her. "It was jealousy," she murmured, glancing up towards Yvon and addressing him more than Gwennola. "Fie! it is an evil passion. Is it not, monsieur? but one to which poor mortals are prone. He had verily proved, as he thought, that Monsieur d’Es—d’Es—monsieur the Frenchman was guilty of his cousin’s blood, and unworthy though it might be, he was the more glad to see him die as he fancied the lady of his love looked more kindly on him than he deemed befitting. So, when he found that his rival was like to be restored to liberty, in a foolish fit of unreasoning rage he hurried homewards, little dreaming how ill a construction so weak an act could have placed upon it." "And how knew he of such construction, seeing he fled in such haste?" demanded Gwennola shrewdly; but Diane de Coray had suddenly become afflicted with deafness. "To such foolishness doth unrequited love lead us," she sighed, addressing Yvon solely now. "Alas! ’tis a cruel passion at best, is it not, monsieur? and one better eschewed by the wise." "Nay," replied he slowly, looking down with undisguised admiration into her face. "Not when it cometh in the guise of an angel of peace and love, mademoiselle." "Peace and love!" whispered Gwennola to herself as she withdrew. "Mary, Mother, grant that it be not strife and bitter hate; for, alas! she is false, this demoiselle, false to the heart’s core, for all her beauty." *CHAPTER XIII* It would seem indeed that Diane de Coray had come,—if come for that purpose she had,—to play hostage for life against her brother’s truth, for almost imperceptibly she slipped into her niche in the simple, family life at the Château of Mereac.