When she had gone Ian paced rapidly up and down the room, going over the miserable story in his mind. Certainly there was one good thing in his not escaping the first night as he had intended; he was at least here to try and make plans with her to help her, but how was it to be done? The more he thought the more hopeless he became. Delighted, as he knew his mother would be to look after the child, he knew that as long as his father lived it was impossible; he would find out who had sent her and turn her out of the house or worse than ever--and Ian felt his flesh creep--his father might think that she was a heretic too and then.... Again the vision of Aline burning in the flames rose vividly and distinctly before him, as though it were an actual sight. Ian groaned in agony. “O Lord,” he cried, “not that, not that!” He was nearly beside himself; but as the vision passed away he grew calmer. He still walked rapidly to and fro, however, and clenched and unclenched his hands till the nails dug into the flesh. Here was this sweet child, the sweetest thing that he had ever seen in his life, for whom he was ready to do anything,--he was perfectly willing to suffer all things for her, he was willing to die for her if need be, not only to save her life, but even to make her happy, if he could make sure of it,--and yet, here he was, absolutely unable to do anything at all, not even to save her from one jealous woman. It was pitiable, it was almost ludicrous; he who had escaped the forces of the inquisition and the united endeavours of the whole countryside, to be foiled in this way by one woman. Then he clenched his teeth. No. There must be a way and he must find it: “And if there is not one,” he said, bringing his fist down on the top of a chair with a crash, “I will make one.” The chair broke under the blow. “Exactly so,” he said; “if they will not yield they shall break.” After a time Audry returned with Aline. The child did her best to be cheerful, but it was obviously impossible; so Ian thought that it would be best for her to relieve her feelings by talking about it, if she could not put the subject away from her mind altogether. “Everything sad seems to have happened all at once,” she said. “Mistress Mowbray said such dreadful things about father and now she has been telling every one that I am a thief and poor little Joan does not seem able to get over the effects of Moll’s visit.” “You mustn’t pay too much attention to what mother says,” Audry said softly. “She loses her temper just as I do and I do not think that she really meant anything that she said about Captain Gillespie. It was only that she was so angry.” “Well, that is what I minded most, at least at the time. After all, poor father has gone and it does not really matter to him now what she says, and it does matter to me when people think that I am a thief. Every one seemed to be staring at me as I passed to-day.”