"Let us bless this pallor of death, beautiful bishopess; it announces the approach of death--a death that will save the poor child the agony of the burning pyre. Did not her wound already protect her against the brutalities of the count and the torture of to-day? Die, die, little Odille, we shall live again in yonder world. Were I free I would have made you my wife for life in Vagrery, if you consented. I have loved you dearly for your sweetness, your beauty, and the misfortune of the shame that you were smitten with so young--an innocent girl even after your dishonor! Die, little Odille! As sure as I and my brother Loysik will be executed to-morrow I stand in less dread of the agony in store for me than of the thought that you are yourself to burn alive! Oh, if my feet were not in blisters I would drag myself to your side. Oh, if my hands were not manacled I would smother you with a loving hand, as our mothers, the Gallic women of yore, killed their children in order to snatch them from slavery. Beautiful bishopess, could not you, whose arms are free, gently strangle that poor child? The slender thread of life that hardly holds her, would be easily torn!" "I have thought of that, Ronan, but I lack the courage." "But should she unfortunately live till to-morrow, her fate will be yours. Keep in mind that you will be stripped naked by that band of Franks, and whipped by them with switches!" "Keep still, Ronan, shame mantles my cheeks! To me, a woman, that part of the punishment--to be exposed naked before those men--is the worst!" "Your husband, the bishop, knew that, just as he was aware that, if you were tortured to-day, you would lose some of the strength necessary to endure to-morrow's punishment to the end, on account of which he spared you.--You will both thereupon be impaled. Before impalement, poor dear victims, your nipples will be torn from you with burning tongs. Finally you will both be thrown upon the pyre with whatever little life may be still in you. As you see, the torture is finely graded, and will not you, you who have the power, snatch the dear girl from such torment? Oh, I see, you finally take the decision--your hands are creeping up to Odille's neck. Courage, no weakness! Remember that our mothers themselves put their beloved little ones to death. What! You hesitate--your hands drop down again! You weep!" "I have not the courage--I cannot." "Craven soul!" "No, Ronan, I am no craven. No--were she my daughter I would kill her." "I understand. Odille is a stranger to you--you cannot love her enough to decide to kill her. We must pardon the bishopess for her want of kindness, not so, Loysik?" At that moment the young slave moved, gave a slight sigh, half raised her head, her eyes opened and looked around for Ronan. When they finally fell upon him she said, after a moment, in a weak voice: "Ronan, is the night over, and is it now day?"