"Pity! lord duke, pity! for my parents' sake. Soil not your honour, nor mine; yield a frail girl to her mother again. Already she has wept long for me." Then, as she humbled her beauty before him, and her long, black hair, dishevelled, swept his very feet, strong passion burnt out all pity from Amalon's heart. He bent low, and took her in his arms. With a wild cry, the girl broke from his grasp, and rushed to the thing shining on the wall. Cursing, the duke followed her. As he reached her, she turned. "Serpent, feel how the dove can peck!" Torchlight flashed bright upon the uplifted blade. There came the sound of a blow, an awful cry, and Duke Amalon, his skull cloven, lay prostrate at the feet of the maid. With a crash, the doors flew open; five poniards were raised over Bertille's head. The Duke saw them, before darkness swam into his dying eyes. "Slay her not," he whispered, "Slay her not, but let her go. This is God's hand; so should virtue strike." He shuddered in every limb; then lay still in death. * * * * * The great council at St. Marcel was nearing its end. Already King Gontran had withdrawn to his private apartments, and the fathers were deeply occupied with the last session of the conference. The voice of the speaker was filling the vast nave, and all were rapt in the closest attention, when suddenly the door of the church was seen to open swiftly, and a figure, heedless of the guardian's stern warning, entered the church, and ran down the nave towards the choir. At the barrier behind which the conference was assembled, the new-comer knelt; and the astonished prelates saw before them a young girl, weary and travel-stained, whose disordered dress and dishevelled hair could not conceal her natural beauty. Crossing her hands upon her breast, she looked upwards. "Mother of Christ! it was to keep me still worthy of thee!" The priest, who had been addressing the conference, stood silent. Every eye was fastened upon the maid. The ecclesiastics gathered round her, putting questions. "My fathers, I have but one boon to ask of you. Deign to take me to the king. It is with him that I would speak." So the fathers brought her to the king's presence, within the monastery. The Prince received her kindly; but Bertille hesitated, her beautiful eyes downcast. "Speak," said Gontran, smiling; "A maid as fair as you are has little to fear." "Prince," replied the young girl, "I know not how it may have pleased God to fashion me; but if it be, indeed, beauty that He has given me--then is beauty a fatal gift?" "How so?" said the King, with rising interest. The girl stood silent. She reddened, and bent her head still lower. Her breast heaved, and the tears flowed down. "Prince," she said in broken tones, "I am ... guilty ... and I come to yield myself into your hands." All eyes looked at her in astonishment. "Guilty, my child, you!" said Gontran, not less amazed than the others. "That is not easily believed."