"Sir, the day of our Lord's birth is very nigh, when men be wont to make up old quarrels in peace. Will you not yet once entreat of my Lord Duke, being in England, to pay one visit to his dying mother?" "I wis not that she is dying. Folks commonly take less time over their dying than thus." Perrote, as it were, waved away the manner of the answer, and replied only to the matter. "Sir, she is dying, albeit very slowly. My Lady may linger divers weeks yet. Will you not send to my Lord?" "I did send to him," snapped Sir Godfrey. "And he cometh?" said Perrote, eagerly for her. "No." Sir Godfrey tried to pass her with that monosyllable, but Perrote was not to be thus baffled. She laid a detaining hand upon his arm. "Sir, I pray you, for our Lord's love, to tell me what word came back from my Lord Duke?" Our Lord's love was not a potent factor in Sir Godfrey's soul. More powerful were those pleading human eyes--and yet more, the sentiment which swayed the unjust judge--"Because this widow troubleth me, I will avenge her." He turned back. "Must you needs wit? Then take it: it shall do you little pleasure. My Lord writ that he was busily concerned touching the troubles in Brittany, and ill at ease anentis my Lady Duchess, that is besieged in the Castle of Auray, and he could not spare time to go a visiting; beside which, it might be taken ill of King Edward, whose favour at this present is of high import unto him, sith without his help he is like to lose his duchy. So there ends the matter. No man can look for a prince to risk the loss of his dominions but to pleasure an old dame." "One only, Sir, it may be, is like to look for it; and were I my Lord Duke, I should be a little concerned touching another matter--the account that he shall give in to that One at the last day. In the golden balances of Heaven I count a dying mother's yearning may weigh heavy, and the risk of loss of worldly dominion may be very light. I thank you, Sir. Good-night. May God not say one day to my Lord Duke, `Thou fool!'" Perrote disappeared, but Sir Godfrey Foljambe stood where she had left him. Over his pleasure-chilled, gold-hardened conscience a breath from Heaven was sweeping, such a breath as he had often felt in earlier years, but which very rarely came to him now. Like the soft toll of a passing bell, the terrible words rang in his ears with their accent of hopeless pity--"Thou fool! Thou fool!" Would God, some day, in that upper world, say that to _him_? The sound was so vivid and close that he actually glanced round to see if any one was there to hear but himself. But he was alone. Only God had heard them, and God forgets nothing--a thought as dreadful to His enemies as it is warmly comforting to His children. Alas, for those to whom the knowledge that God has His eye upon them is only one of terror!