"Oh, thou wilt have all thy sins forgiven," said she. "I thank the Damoiselle," answered Marguerite, and turned quietly away. "Then it would be to no good, for my sins are forgiven." "What a strange old woman!" exclaimed Lady Isabel. "Oh, Marguerite is very queer," said I. "She amuses me exceedingly." "Is she quite right in her head, do you think?" demanded the Princess, eyeing Margot with rather a doubtful expression. I laughed, and Amaury said, "Oh yes, as bright as a new besant. She is only comical." Then we went into the Church of Saint John, where a piece of marble is kept on which our Lord wrote when the heathen Jews desired to know His judgment on a wicked woman. Marguerite seemed puzzled with this. She said she had heard Father Eudes read the story, and the holy Evangel said that our Lord wrote on the ground. How did the writing get on that marble? "Oh," said I, "the marble must have been down below, and it pleased the good God that it should receive the impress." "The good God can do all things," assented Margot. "But—well, I am an ignorant woman." Coming down, on the slope of Olivet, the place is shown where our Lady appeared to Monseigneur Saint Thomas, who refused to believe her assumption, and gave him her girdle as a token of it. This girdle is kept in an abbey in England, and is famous for easing pain. That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen’s presence-chamber, were Messire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk—I remember not how—upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would have it that nothing is, but all things only seem to be. "Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am." "Pardon me—not at all!" he answered. "And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende. "By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy. There is no such thing as matter—only mind. My imagination sees a fire there: your imagination sees a fire:—but there is no fire,—such a thing does not exist." "Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please, Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you will come to a different conclusion within five minutes." "I humbly crave your Highness’ pardon. My finger is an imagination. It does not really exist." "And the pain of the burn—would that be imagination also?" she inquired. "Undoubtedly, Lady," said he. "But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursued Her Highness. "Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none. There is no such thing as matter. Mind—Soul—is the only existence, Lady." "What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron. "But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how does the idea that I do exist get into my head?" "How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy.