“I do not question Him. It is—it is—” untried in this exercise, she groped for words. “It is what ye say He saith. It is what ye declare His will to be that I question.” “What, Eleanore, have I declared His will to be? Have I yet blamed or chid the waywardness of Laure, whom indeed I loved as a dear daughter,—a child of purity and faith?” “Then, then,” Eleanore bent over eagerly, and her voice shook,—“then, an _thou_ blamest her not, St. Nazaire, thou wilt not—” she clasped her hands in an agony of pleading, “thou wilt not put upon her the terrible ban? Thou wilt not excommunicate her?” It was only then that the Bishop realized how skilfully she had led up to her point. He had not realized that he was dealing with perception engendered by an agony of grief and fear. As she reached her climax, he sprang to his feet, and began to pace the room, hands clasped behind him, brows much contracted, head far bent upon his breast. Eleanore, meantime, had slid to her knees and watched him as he moved. “If thou wilt spare her, ask what thou wilt of me. I will do her penance, whatever thou shalt decree. I will give money; I will give all that remains to me of my dower, freely and with light heart, to the Church. I will aid whomsoever thou wilt of thy poor, I—” “Cease, Eleanore! These things cannot avail against the Church. Thou must not tempt, thou must not question; thou canst not understand _the Law_! I am but an instrument of that Law, and am commanded by it. Laure, the bride of Heaven, hath forsaken her chosen life. She must endure her punishment, being guilty of—thou knowest the sin. Next Sunday the ban must be put upon her. In doing so, I but obey a higher power. Eleanore, Eleanore, rise from thy knees! Thou art tearing at my heart! Peace, woman! Peace, and let me go!” Eleanore, in her agony of despair, had crept to him and clasped his knees, mutely imploring the pity that he dared not show. Logic and reason he had put from him, holding fast to the tenets of that Church that had made him what he was. In all his career he had not been so tried, so tempted, to slip his duty. But, through the crucial moment, he did not speak; and after that he was safe from attack. After many minutes the mother loosed her clasp of him, and ceased to moan, and let him go; for she saw that he could not help her. And as he passed slowly out of the room, she rose to her feet and looked after him blindly. Then she groped her way to the door, crossed the great hall, and, with her burden, ascended the stairs and went to her own room. Next morning, when the Bishop said mass in the chapel, madame, for the first time in thirty years on such an occasion, was not present. Nor did monseigneur seem astonished at the fact, but left his sympathy for her before he rode away to St. Nazaire.