“Ha! Will you be a theologian, then? It is she who should make confession, not you—by the wise decision of the Church, as I was discussing but lately with the Episcopal of Zenss. The minor priests will say otherwise; but it is a reflection from the old days, before the present congress of episcopals. Listen, peasant; is it not manifestly to the glory of God that men should seek women for their first and highest pleasure, as it is that daughters should have all monetary inheritance? Is it not also manifest that all would be under the rule of women, who have the Art as well as their arts, unless some disability lay upon them. . . . Ah, chutte! Why do I talk like a deacon to a be-damned clerk? Enough that I have given you an order. Greater things than you think hang on this intrigue, and you’ll execute it well, or by the Service, I’ll reduce you to a state where no woman will tempt you again. Now take off that finery; be prompt here at two glasses before midnight for Mathurin to dress you.” II “But where does this intrigue lead?” asked Rodvard. “Could not your Blue Star give you a clue?” said Mathurin. They sat on a green bank behind the hall of conference, many-colored tulips waving in the light breeze about them, and Rodvard carefully tore one of the long leaves to ribbons as he answered: “No. There may have been something about Aggermans in it, but he was not thinking of his central purpose at all, only about how it would be a nasty joke and a revenge. What—” (it was behind his lips to ask what he should do lest he lose the power of the Blue Star, but in midflight he changed) “—what have you done toward saving Baron Brunivar? Will there be a rising?” (There was a quick note of suspicion and surprise in the eyes that lifted to meet his.) “Nothing for now, but to let Remigorius, and through him the High Center, know what’s in prospect. There’s no accusation as matters stand; it will gain us nothing merely to put out the story that the court plots against him. . . . Yet I do not understand why he has failed to fly when it’s as clear as summer light that Florestan means the worse toward him.” “What I do not understand,” said Rodvard, “is why the High Center has failed to make more preparation. It will be too late when Brunivar’s been placed in a dungeon, under guard and accusation with a shar of soldiers around him.” “It would never pass . . .” Mathurin’s voice trailed off; he contemplated the lawns, brow deep, and Rodvard could not see his thought. “I can understand the High Center.” “What would never pass? You are more mysterious than the Count, friend Mathurin, with your hints here and there.”