“I am the Abbé de Granville. Look at me.” He took a candle from the altar and held it near his face. So masculine was the countenance that it staggered conviction. The razor had left sleekness there. The tone of flesh was man-like. “I am Dollard,” he said. “I am a priest. There can be, of course, no marriage between us. I sent for you to ask your pardon, and to send you from St. Bernard.” This gross and stupid cruelty had on Claire merely the effect of steeping her in color. Her face and throat blushed. “You are Mademoiselle de Granville,” she repeated. The priest, as if weary of enforcing his explanations, waved his fingers with a gesture of dismissal in Dollard’s own manner. “I am the Abbé de Granville. But we will discuss the subject no further. I must be at my prayers. A trustworthy witness shall confirm what I have told you.” He opened the closet door, carrying the candle with him. His tread had body and sound, though his feet were shod in sandals. Claire moved guardedly after him. He crossed the closet and entered a long passage so narrow that two persons could scarcely walk abreast in it, nor did she covet the privilege of stepping it thus with her conductor. As she crossed the closet her rapid eye searched it for the chrysalis of Mademoiselle de Granville. The candle was already in the passage beyond, but distinct enough lay that brocaded figure prostrate on the floor beneath a crucifix, but the mask faced Claire. She moved on behind Abbé de Granville as with masculine tread of foot he strode the length of the passage and opened a door leading out on the stairway. “Here, Jacques,” he called in his mellow tones, “tell this demoiselle about me; and tell her the truth, or it shall be the worse for you.” Claire, standing on the upper stairs, could see Jacques with his back to the fire and his mouth opened in consternation at this unpriestly threat. His candle was yet smoking, so lately had it been divorced from its flame. [Illustration: “I know who you are.”] Abbé de Granville closed the passage door and bolted it. She went down into the kitchen and Jacques brought her a seat, placed her before the middle hearth, and stationed himself at the corner in an attitude of entire dejection. The other inmates rested in unbroken sleep. The cell occupied by Papillon and his wife resounded with a low guttural duet. “Where is Sieur des Ormeaux, Jacques?” inquired the lady of St. Bernard. Writhing betwixt two dilemmas, Dollard’s follower cunningly seized upon the less painful one, and nodded up the stairway. “He’s been out again, has he?” “Do you mean the priest?” “Monsieur the abbé.” “Jacques, who is he?”