“Yes,” returned the priest; “since you ask I will illustrate it. The girl whom you intend to make your wife loves and is loved in turn by another man. You——” Gilbert started angrily from his chair. “Great Heavens!” he cried, “you presume too much! How do you know this? It is false—I tell you that it is a lie!” M. des Graves had risen also. “My son,” he said, “sit down. It is not false. You shall hear me to the end, and you shall not ask me how I know what I know.” A very definite majesty hung about the priest as he stood with one hand raised in expostulation. No one could have guessed that the tumult in his mind almost equalled that of Gilbert’s. They stood thus for several seconds, measuring swords against each other, till at last, when the tension began to get unbearable, the Marquis suddenly sat down. “Go on,” he said harshly; “I will hear you to the end.” M. des Graves walked over to the fire, turned, and began to speak. “I am in possession of certain facts, which you know to be true. I do not speak idly. I am not accustomed to play with words, nor is my information derived dishonourably. You know that Lucienne loves Louis; you know also that long ago they agreed to see no more of each other. You have taken no account of the suffering that went to that resolution. You intend to marry that unhappy lady with the consent of her will but not of her heart. You have been wronged in thought, I grant you; you are within your rights, I grant you—but have you no chivalry, have you no pity? Do you really mean to wreck two lives, and your own also—for nothing but misery and disillusionment can come of such a union?” “You would suggest that I abdicate in favour of my cousin?” asked the Marquis. “That is my meaning,” answered M. des Graves. There was another long silence, while Gilbert, his head between his clenched hands, stared at his shoe buckles. At last the priest left his place and came to him. His voice was changed, his face very sad. “My son,” he said, “I ask your forgiveness. It is because I love you that I have made myself speak thus to you. . . . Oh, believe me, if you could put aside your will, if you could only throw yourself upon the venture, it is not the intellectual difficulties that would keep you from the Divine embrace.” And after a moment’s hesitation Château-Foix rose and took his hand. “As for forgiveness,” he said, “it is yours without the asking. It is all true. You may be right . . . I cannot tell . . . but the path you bid me tread is too steep. You ask me to put from me the traditions of a lifetime, and it is too late. I cannot.” “‘Whosoever will come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me,’” said the priest. “. . . ‘For that shall bring a man peace at the last,’” he added, almost to himself, as he turned and went slowly out of the room. CHAPTER XXXVII “CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME”