"Master Aristoteles I cannot describe, for I have only heard his voice. Father Nicholas is about fifty, I should think: a kindly sort of man, but immersed in his books, and caring for little beside. Father Warner is not pleasant; all the girls were very much afraid of him." "And the chaplain of the Lady?" "He is forty or more, I should suppose: tall and slender, eyes and hair dark; a very pleasant man to speak with." "I am afraid so!" was Abraham's internal comment.--"And his name, daughter?" "Father Bruno." "_What_?" Abraham had risen, with outspread hands, as though he would fain push away some unwelcome and horrible thing. Belasez repeated the name. "Bruno!--de Malpas?" "I never heard of any name but Bruno." "Has he talked with thee?" Abraham's whole manner showed agitation. "Much." "Upon what subjects?" Belasez would gladly have avoided that question. "Different subjects," she said, evasively. "Tell me what he said when he first met thee." "He seemed much distressed, I knew not at what, and murmured that my face painfully reminded him of somebody." "Ah!--Belasez, didst thou know whom?" "Not till I came home," she said in a low tone. "_Ay de mi_! What hast thou heard since thy coming home?" Belasez resolved to speak the truth. She had been struck by her father's hints that some terrible mischief had come from not speaking it; and she thought that perhaps open confession on her part might lead to confidence on his. "I overheard you and my mother talking at night," she said. "I gathered that the somebody whom I was like was my sister, and that her name was Anegay; and I thought she had either become a Christian, or had wedded a Christian. Father, may I know?" "My little Belasez," he said, with deep feeling, "thou knowest all but the one thing thou must not know. There was one called Anegay. But she was not thy sister. Let the rest be silence to thee." It seemed to cost Abraham immense pain to say even so much as this. He sat quiet for a moment, his face working pitifully. "Little Belasez," he said again, "didst thou like that man?" "I think I loved him," was her soft answer. Abraham's gesture, which she thought indicated despair and anguish, roused her to explain. "Father," she said hastily, "I do not mean anything wrong or foolish. I loved Father Bruno with a deep, reverential love--such as I give you." "Such as thou givest me--O Belasez!" Belasez thought he was hurt by her comparison of her love for him to that of her love for a mere stranger. "Father, how shall I explain? I meant--"