"Yes--I must know," she went on, still brusquely, "you will tell me where she is. I will go there. And afterwards I will return to the Escorial to see my father--Philip the King. Meantime I will speak to the Duke of Err, and to his mother, as well as to the Viceroy Doria. You shall abide in Pilate's House down there, where is a prison garden----" "And my friend?" said John d'Albret. The girl hesitated a little, and then held out her hand. The young man took it. "And your friend!" she said. "There in Pilate's House you must wait, you two, till I see--till I know that she is worth the sacrifice." Once again she laughed a little, seeing a wave of joy or perhaps some more complex emotion sweep over John's face. "Ah," she cried, with a returning trace of her first bitterness, "you are certain that she is worthy. Doubtless so for you! But as the sacrifice is mine--I also must be certain--ah, very certain. For there is no back-going. It is the end of all things for Valentine la Niña." She laughed little and low, like one on the verge of hysterics. A nerve twitched irregularly in her throat under her chin to the right. The pink came out brighter to her cheek. It was a terrible laugh to hear in that still place. And the mirthlessness of it--it struck the Abbé John cold. "This shall be my revenge," she said, fixing him, with flame in her honey-coloured eyes; "long after, long--oh, so--so long after"--she waved her arm--"you will know! And you will see that, however much she has loved you, hers was the love which takes. But mine--ah, mine is different. Mine is the love which gives--the only true woman's love--without scant, without measure, without bounds of good or evil, without thought of recompense, or hope of reward. Love net, unselfish, boundless, encompassing as the sea, and like a fountain sealed within the heart of a woman. And then--then you shall remember that when ye might--ye would not--ah, ye would not!" A sob tore her throat. "But one day, or it may be through all eternity, you shall know which is the greater love, and you shall wish--no, you are a man, you will be content with the lesser, the more comprehensible, the goodwife warming her feet by the fire over against yours. There is your ideal. While I--I--would have carried you beyond the stars!" The Abbé John took a step nearer her. He had some vague notion of comforting--not knowing. But she thrust her arms out furiously as if to strike him. "Go--go!" she cried, "you are breaking my heart every instant you remain. Is it not enough, that which you have done? I would be quiet. They are waiting for you to take you to Pilate's House. But tell me first where to find this--this Claire Agnew!" She pronounced the name with difficulty.