fe.

Being not displeased with himself, he turned at last toward Joan and put
a hand over hers.

"You see," he said, "I am not so hard a man. By this Christian act shall
I celebrate your arrival."

But the Jew did not come. The singers learned the truth, and sang with
watchful eyes. The _seigneur's_ anger was known to be mighty, and to
strike close at hand.

Guillem, the gaoler, had been waiting for the summons.

News had come to him late in the afternoon that had made him indifferent
to his fate. The girl Joan, whom he loved, had come up the hill at the
overlord's summons. So, instead of raising an alarm, Guillem had waited
sullenly. Death, which yesterday he would have blenched to behold, now
beckoned him. When he was brought in, he stood with folded arms and
asked no mercy.

"He is gone, my lord," said Guillem, and waited. He did not glance at
the girl.

"Gone?" said Charles. Then he laughed, such laughter as turned the girl
cold.

"Gone, earth-clod? How now? Perhaps you, too, wished to give a hostage
to fortune, to forestall me in mercy?"

He turned to the girl beside him.

"You see," he said, "to what lengths this spirit of the Holy Day extends
itself. Our friend here--" Then he saw her face and knew the truth.

The smile set a little on his lips.

"Why, then," he said to the gaoler, "such mercy should have its reward."
He turned to Joan. "What say you? Shall I station him at your door,
sweet lady, as a guard of honour?"

Things went merrily after that, for Guillem drew a knife and made, not
for the _seigneur_, but for Joan. The troubadours feared to stop singing
without a signal, so they sang through white lips. The dogs gnawed at
their bones and the _seigneur_ sat and smiled, showing his teeth.

Guillem, finally unhanded, stood with folded arms and waited for death.

"It is the time of the Truce of God," said the _seigneur_ softly, and,
knowing that death would be a boon, sent him off unhurt.

* * * * *

The village, which had eaten full, slept early that night. Down the hill
at nine o'clock came half a dozen men-at-arms on horseback and
clattered through the streets. Word went about quickly. Great oaken
doors were unbarred to the news:

"The child Clotilde is gone!" they cried through the streets. "Up and
arm. The child Clotilde is gone."

Joan, deserted, sat alone in the great hall. For the _seigneur_ was off,
riding like a madman. Flying through the Marke