He looked at me keenly. “The Church--what is it that you know of the Church, monsieur? You, a heretic! You were praying. Think you such prayers as yours are heard? You might as well have cast them to the wind that howls outside. It is the Church, the Church alone, that can save you and yours, monsieur. But enough of this! It is of other matters I came to speak, and, to be brief, I overheard most of your talk with your friend.” I glanced at the large press that stood in the corner of the room, and then at him. “Precisely. You have uncommon intelligence. There is a door behind that, and space to stand.” “And so you played the spy--well, what is your point?” His eyes flashed. “I am coming to that. It has been my painful duty to have your friend arrested. There were watchers by my poor mule. I have no horse, but I am an old soldier.” “Ponthieu has failed then?” “Ponthieu has failed,” he repeated drily. “Ponthieu is at present in safe hands, and to-morrow Ponthieu will rest in the _cachots_ of Loches--where I have a great mind to send you, Monsieur de Vibrac.” I flushed hotly, and my hand stole to the hilt of my sword. “Put back your hand, monsieur; a blow from your sword would only kill a poor priest, but you would be broken on the wheel, and you are not yet ready to die. Even that poor fool, Ponthieu, is better prepared than you, and as for Marcilly--he has a good conscience and sleeps soundly--but you--you cannot sleep.” “Man! Be careful! There is danger in the air.” “But not for me, de Vibrac--for you, perhaps, who risk broad lands and an honorable name. A moment ago the _cachots_ yawned for you, but now I have other plans.” There was something in his air, in his haughty speech and bearing, that overawed me. He was reading me like an open page. “I”--I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand. “Understand, monsieur, that I do not send you to join Ponthieu because I have other need of you. I have enough against you--even against Marcilly--to have you both put to the question, and to send you to the block--and you know the Edict of Romorantin. If you forget I will refresh your memory. Under the secret clause, the punishment for all spiritual offences remains in the hands of the bishops, and there is one to whom our Lord the Pope and His Majesty have confided the trust of the Holy Office, and he stands before you. But, I want you for other things, as I said, and it has occurred to me that it would be well if you appeared a free agent.” “Monseigneur, you are pushing too far.” “Bah! This is an abbey farm of my brother of St. Aignan, Vibrac, and I have gloves for the cat. I have ten stout fellows with me. I lodged them in the barns without for purposes of my own. Six stand now in the hall, and you would gain nothing by violence--you would be shot down like a mad dog--you grasp the position?” I did. I was a campaigner old enough to know that I was outgeneralled, and my only chance was to play fox against fox.