M. des Graves bowed his head. “God’s mercies are too high for us,” he answered. “Let us not forget to thank Him for them.” But, indeed, as he knelt in the chapel five minutes later, it seemed to him that he could not realise so great a restitution. The prosaic medium of a meal brought them all together again. At the bottom of the table sat the Marquise, and M. des Graves, on Gilbert’s right hand, faced Louis across the plentifully spread board. Unconsciously the priest found himself studying the face opposite to him, wondering what change not only a perilous journey, but nine months of absence and a hazardous existence had written there. The outline of the Vicomte’s head was dark against the unshuttered window behind him, but his face was in full candle-light. Yet the priest could read nothing, while he was penetrated by the conviction that there was something to be read. The young man looked white and tired, but that was only natural, and he smiled across at his very good friend with exactly his old half-mocking gaiety. Was there, or was there not, some impalpable difference? Perhaps the soft, half-submerged candle-light was baffling, for Louis’ visage remained an enigma. But since the observer is himself in no way exempt from observation, Louis, too, looked between the pointed candle-flames at M. des Graves. He saw beneath the priest’s eyes the unmistakable black rings whose recurrence he remembered well in his boyish days, and he attributed them without hesitation to one of those daylong fasts of which he used then to hear rumours in the village. But he was wrong, for it was anxiety which had set the marks there. It was obvious that the travellers were hungry, and it was equally obvious that the Marquise, despite her disclaimer, was hungry also—for information. As soon as the two were served the servants were dismissed, and when Madame de Château-Foix, after a struggle of short duration with her nephew, had succeeded in cutting up his viands for him, it was plain that she would shortly attempt to satisfy her curiosity. Seeing this the priest, not without malice, entangled her in a conversation of some complexity concerning one of her pensioners, the very old woman whom he had that afternoon been to visit. The Marquise became restive, but it was some time before she could break free, and meanwhile Louis at least, a prey to an undutiful amusement, made the best use of his time. At last the poor lady succeeded in her efforts, and dismissed the obtrusive topic. “Well, I will send her some soup to-morrow,” she said. “Gilbert, will you not have some more meat?” “No, thank you,” replied her son, filling his glass; “we have not been actually starving, ma mère.” “Well, then, I do not wish to hurry you, nor to tire you with talking, but I cannot help being anxious to hear now what has happened to you. Why did Louis have to come back in those extraordinary clothes?” It had already been briefly explained to her why he wore his arm in a sling.