In less than half an hour after his disappearance from the church, he was closeted with the earl, who had just risen from his knees, having been on a _prie-dieu_ at prayer before a crucifix and case containing some crumbs of the bones of St. Bryde--the chief palladium of the house of Douglas. "What tidings now," said he, "for thou art always abroad in the night, like an owl or a rascally kirkyard bat? _Miserere mei Deus!_" he added, concluding his orisons. The earl was in a good humour; the formula of his prayers and his adoration of the relics had partially soothed his ferocious spirit; but on hearing what had occurred his fury was on the verge of taking a very dangerous turn, for, snatching a dagger from his girdle, he seized Achanna by the throat, and tearing open his collar and pourpoint, threatened to stab him for not having prevented this secret and--so far as some of his plans were concerned--most fatal marriage from taking place by killing Gray on the spot. "At the steps of the altar?" gasped Achanna, struggling to free himself. "Anywhere; what mattered it, wretch, where you slew my enemy?" thundered Douglas, hurling him in a heap against the wainscot. "But--but, my lord--bethink you--'twere a sacrilege, and the Dyck Graf would have broken me alive on the wheel, even were I, like yourself, a belted earl." "True; we are not now within a day's ride of Thrave," said the earl almost with a groan, as he sank into a chair, and, overwhelmed by what seemed a sudden and irremediable catastrophe, gave way to undignified fury and abuse. He dared not trust himself in the presence of Murielle, lest he should commit some fatal violence, or in that of Albany, lest he might betray the source of that unbecoming discomposure, which filled his proud heart with shame at himself; and a rage at Gray, which words cannot describe. Thus a long time elapsed before he could arrange his thoughts after hearing Achanna repeat at least twice all he had seen and overheard in the church of St. Genevieve. Desiring his pages to admit none (even the countess), he turned to Achanna with his usually swarthy visage turned white and livid by the fierce emotions that filled his heart. "We must dissemble, Achanna," said he in a husky voice; "we must conceal this from Albany--from all; but we must nevertheless destroy Sir Patrick Gray--yea, this night, within a few brief hours, shall Murielle Douglas be maid, wife, and widow! and as for my lord the abbot, may the curse of the souls of my kindred and of St. Bryde be on him, for a meddling mock friar! If I had him as near the Nith as we are near the Waal, I would set him a-swimming with a millstone at his neck for his handiwork to-night! Yet, _laus Deo!_ I dare hardly address him, for, as it is, he withholds absolution from me for many, many sins already committed. Torture! men call me a tyrant, yet I am the slave of a tyrant--of a priest;--and Lady Murielle, she means to escape to-night?"