“C'est ca,” he murmured, as if to himself, and his eyes taking such stock of her as made Charlot burn to tear him from his horse. Then, in a kindly, fatherly voice, he added: “My felicitations, Marie; may you be a happy wife and a happier mother.” “Merci, Monseigneur,” she murmured, with crimson cheeks, whilst Charlot breathed once more, and from his heart gave thanks to Heaven, believing the interview at an end. But he went too fast. “Do you know, Marie, that you are a very comely child?” quoth the Marquis, in tones which made the bridegroom's blood run cold. Some in that noble company nudged one another, and one there was who burst into a loud guffaw. “Charlot has often told me so,” she laughed, all unsuspicious. The Marquis moved on his horse that he might bend lower. With his forefinger he uptilted her chin, and now, as she met his glance thus at close quarters, an unaccountable fear took possession of her, and the colour died out of her plump cheeks. “Yes,” said Bellecour, with a smile, “this Tardivet has good taste. My congratulations, to him. We must find you a wedding gift, little woman,” he continued more briskly. “It is an ancient and honoured custom that is falling somewhat into neglect. Go up to the Chateau with Blaise and Jean there. This good Tardivet must curb his impatience until to-morrow.” He turned in his saddle, and beckoning the two servants he had named, he bade Marie to mount behind Blaise. She drew back now, her cheeks white as those of the dead. With a wild terror in her eyes she turned to Charlot, who stood the very picture of anguish and impotent rage. In the cortege, where but a few moments ago all had been laughter, a sob or two sounded now from some of the women. “By my faith,” laughed Bellecour contemptuously eyeing their dejection, “you have more the air of a burial than a bridal party.” “Mercy my lord!” cried the agonised voice of Charlot, as, distraught with grief, he flung himself before the Marquis. “Who seeks to harm you, fool?” was Bellecour's half-derisive rejoinder. “Do not take her from me, my lord,” the young man pleaded piteously. “She shall return to-morrow, booby,” answered the noble. “Out of the way!” But Charlot was obstinate. The Marquis might be claiming no more than by ancient law was the due of the Seigneur, but Charlot was by no means minded to submit in craven acquiescence to that brutal, barbarous law. “My lord,” he cried, “you shall not take her. She is my wife. She belongs to me. You shall not take her!” He caught hold of the Marquis's bridle with such a strength and angry will that the horse was forced to back before him.