his care. They escaped together to go
to his mother's house with one of the students, a cousin of the Hope of
Israel. You never heard--no, it is not possible. Why should I dream it?"

The Abbe John's throat became suddenly dry. He gasped for a moment, but
could not speak.

"You do know--she is dead--tell me!" said Francis the Scot, shaking him
roughly by the arm. And that was the single unkindness he used to the
young man.

"No, no!" gasped John d'Albret. "She is well. I love her. I was that
third who escaped in her company!"

"Where is she?"

"Nay, that I do not know exactly," said the Abbe John, "but it is in
France, in a quiet province, with good folk who love her--though not as
I love her. For I came hither for her sake!"

And he told the tale--how, in Jean-aux-Choux's secret _cache_ behind
the sheepfold on the hill, he had found a list of the articles for
transport to Dame Amelie's new abode, with directions to the carriers,
and one or two objects of price, evidently set aside for Jean to carry
thither himself upon his next visit. So far, therefore, he was assured
that all went well.

"God is great!" said Francis the Scot aloud; and the captive Turk who
rowed outside oar, catching the well-known formula, added instantly,
"And Mohammed is His prophet."

But on this occasion, at least, he was mistaken. For--like many a good
proselyte who knows little of his master's doctrine yet draws converts
notwithstanding--not Mohammed or Another, but plain, flippant,
light-hearted John d'Albret was on this occasion the Prophet of the
Lord.

CHAPTER XLIII.

IN TARRAGONA BAY

Henceforth little personal was said. The two men spoke mostly of the
work of the ship, the chances of escape (like all prisoners), and
especially concerning the progress of the Holy War against ignorance and
tyranny. But of Claire, nothing.

Something withheld them. A new thing was working in the heart of John
d'Albret. Like many another he had been born a Catholic, and it had
always seemed impossible to him to change. But the Place of Eyes, the
Question Greater and Lesser in the Street of the Money, the comradeship
of Rosny and D'Aubigne in the camps of the Bearnais, had shaken him. Now
he listened, as often as he had time to listen, to the whispered
arguments and explanations of his new friend. I do not know whether he
was convinced. I am not sure even that he always heard aright. But,
moved most of all by the transparent honesty of