“Eleanore, for the first time in many years I come to you in sorrow, to bring to you what comfort the Church can give,” he said gently, fixing his eyes upon her to read how she had taken her blow, and from it decide what his attitude toward her should be. For St. Nazaire had a great and affectionate respect for Eleanore, and he was accustomed to treat her with a consideration that he used toward no other woman. It was for this that he had come to her in her grief, at the first moment that he heard the news of Laure’s flight. “Come thou into this room, where we can be alone,” she said quickly, leading him into the round armory that opened off the great hall immediately opposite the chapel. Half closing the heavy door, she sat down on a wooden settle, motioning the Bishop to a tabouret near at hand. “Is there any news of her? What hast thou heard?” she asked eagerly, bending toward him. “I come but now from the priory, where I chanced to go to-day. This morning the girl Eloise, a lay sister, she that was accustomed to ride hither from the priory with Laure, confessed to many rides and love-passages between herself and Yvain the young squire, while Bertrand Flammecœur followed Laure.” Madame drew a sharp breath, and the Bishop continued: “The girl is now under heavy penance; yet is she a silly thing, and in my heart I find no great blame for her.” “Then there hath been no word—no news—of Laure? Left she no token in her cell?” “Nothing, Eleanore, nothing.” “Ah, St. Nazaire! St. Nazaire! how did we that cruel thing? How took we away from a young girl all her freedom, all her youth, all her love of life? Know I not enough of the woe of loneliness, that I should have sent her forth into that living death? Alas! alas! I am all to blame.” “Not wholly thou, madame. Perhaps the Church also,” said the Bishop, softly. Eleanore looked at him in something of amazement. It was the first time that he had ever suggested any criticism of the Church. But after these words had escaped him, the Bishop paused for a little and fixed upon Eleanore a look that she read aright. It told her many things that she had guessed before, many unuttered things that had drawn her closely to St. Nazaire; but it told her also that these things must never be discussed between them; that never again would the man be guilty of so heretical an utterance as that which he had just voiced.