nd--"

"Not a bit of it," d'Avranche interrupted. "The centeniers are too free
with their jailing here. I'll be guarantee for you, monsieur." He turned
to go.

The little man shook his head dubiously. "But, as a point of honour, I
really think--"

D'Avranche laughed. "As a point of honour, I think you ought to
breakfast. A la bonne heure, monsieur le chevalier!"

He turned again to the cottage window. The girl was still there. The
darkness over the sun was withdrawn, and now the clear light began to
spread itself abroad. It was like a second dawn after a painful night.
It tinged the face of the girl; it burnished the wonderful red-brown
hair falling loosely and lightly over her forehead; it gave her beauty a
touch of luxuriance. D'Avranche thrilled at the sight of her.

"It's a beautiful face," he said to himself as their eyes met and he
saluted once more.

Ranulph had seen the glances passing between the two, and he winced. He
remembered how, eleven years ago, Philip d'Avranche had saved the girl
from death. It galled him that then and now this young gallant should
step in and take the game out of his hands--he was sure that himself
alone could have mastered this crowd.

"Monsieur--monsieur le chevalier!" the girl called down from the window,
"grandpethe says you must breakfast with us. Oh, but come you must,
or we shall be offended!" she added, as Champsavoys shook his head in
hesitation and glanced towards the prison.

"As a point of honour--" the little man still persisted, lightly
touching his breast with the Louis Quinze cane, and taking a step
towards the sombre prison archway. But Ranulph interfered, drew him
gently inside the cottage, and, standing in the doorway, said to some
one within:

"May I come in also, Sieur de Mauprat?"

Above the pleasant welcome of a quavering voice came another, soft and
clear, in pure French:

"Thou art always welcome, without asking, as thou knowest, Ro."

"Then I'll go and fetch my tool-basket first," Ranulph said cheerily,
his heart beating more quickly, and, turning, he walked across the
Place.

CHAPTER VI

The cottage in which Guida lived at the Place du Vier Prison was in
jocund contrast to the dungeon from which the Chevalier Orvilliers
du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir had complacently issued. Even in the hot
summer the prison walls dripped moisture, for the mortar had been made
of wet sea-sand, which never dried, and beneath the gloomy tenement of
crim