“I do not know, little friend. But, ps-t, my cousin will find out all about it from his reverence.” “Is the Bishop here?” “Not yet; but if he does not come to-day, he will be here in the morning.” “Well, surely, I arrived here at just the right time.” “Did I not tell you so? I am so glad you are not stopping with that disagreeable Loup, for he could not have told you a word about this matter.” “Of course not. He has not such a pious cousin who confesses to his reverence himself. But can I go now and see the tower and the cage?” “Certainly, little friend; but listen. If you should meet that Loup, do not greet him, do not even look at him, for they say he has an evil eye—he might bewitch you.” “I will keep it in mind.” To his great disappointment Jean found the tower so well guarded that he could not be of the slightest assistance to Joan. He decided to withdraw and await events before forming any plans, and in the meantime make inquiries about Marie. While on his way back he heard from passers-by that the Bishop was momentarily expected, and that he would pass that way. As he did not wish unnecessarily to expose himself to the prelate’s gaze, he entered the Ursuline church. It was empty. He went to the usual spot, and scarcely had he placed his ear to the wall before he clearly heard a sob, which seemed to come through the stone. Trembling with excitement, he listened all the more intently, but in vain. All was silent. Had he or had he not been deceived? All at once it seemed to him as if it were the voice of the girl in the carriage which he met in the forest, and that she could be no other than Marie of Chafleur. He quickly made his plans. As he stood leaning against a door, near which he had been kneeling apparently engaged in devotion, he pressed a piece of wax against the lock, went at once to a locksmith’s in an out of the way street, and said his master wished a key made from the impression. The next evening, when all Rouen was out to see the young King Henry of England make his entrance, Jean again found the church empty. He tried his key and it opened the door. He emerged into a long, dark passage-way which skirted the wall. If he was right in his calculations, he would find the prison between this passage and the church. He felt along the wall, for he could see nothing. He was right. There was a door near the corner. It must lead to the prison out of which had come the sound of sobbing. With trembling hand he took another impression, groped his way back, closed the door in the church wall, and departed. The next day he obtained the second key. He now forsook the church for a time and devoted his attention exclusively to the fate of Joan. The strangest reports were circulated about her; but they were so incredible and withal so dreadful, that he paid little attention to them. What pained him the most was the certainty that he could do nothing to help her.