Great as my impatience was, I was compelled to spend the first hour of my arrival at Avranches under the doctor's hands. He discovered to my satisfaction that the bullet had not lodged in my arm and that my hurt was no more than a flesh-wound, which would, if all went well, heal in a few days. He enjoined perfect rest and freedom from worry and excitement. I thanked him, bowed myself out, mounted again, and rode to the hotel, where I left my horse with instructions for its return to its owner. Then, at my best speed, I hastened down the hill again, reached the grounds of the convent, and approached the door. Perfect rest and freedom from excitement were unattainable until I had learned whether Marie Delhasse was still safe within the old white walls which I saw before me; for, though I could not trace how the change in me had come, nor track its growth, I knew now that if she were there the walls held what was of the greatest moment to me in all the world, and that if she were not there the world was a hell to me until I found her. I was about to ring the bell, when from the gate of the burial-ground the Mother Superior came at a slow pace. The old woman was frowning as she walked, and her frown deepened at sight of me. But I, caring nothing for what she thought, ran up to her, crying before I had well reached her: "Is Marie Delhasse still here?" The Mother stopped dead, and regarded me with disapprobation. "What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?" she asked. "I mean her no harm," I urged eagerly. "If she is safe here, I ask to know no more; I don't even ask to see her. Is she here? The Duchess of Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away." "God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here," she said solemnly. "You have seen the duchess?" "Yes; she is at home. But Mlle. Delhasse?" But the old woman would not be hurried. She asked again: "What concern have you, sir, with Marie Delhasse?" I looked her in the face as I answered plainly: "To save her from the Duke of Saint-Maclou." "And from her own mother, sir?" "Yes, above all from her own mother." The old woman started at my words; but there was no change in the level calm of her voice as she asked: "And why would you rescue her?" "For the same reason that any gentleman would, if he could. If you want more--" She held up her hand to silence me; but her look was gentler and her voice softer, as she said: "You, sir, cannot save, and I cannot save, those who will not let God himself save them." "What do you mean?" I cried in a frenzy of fear and eagerness. "I had prayed for her, and talked with her. I thought I had seen grace in her. Well, I know not. It is true that she acted as her mother bade her. But I fear all is not well." "I pray you to speak plainly. Where is she?"