her, and this morning--" He glanced toward the window. "I
was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing."

Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. "What about this
morning?" he roared.

"Snow on Christmas," mused Philip, "prophesies another prosperous year."
Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.

"Would you like to see her?"

Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.

"I doubt if she cares to see me."

"Probably not," said Philip. "Still a few words--she is a true woman,
and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly
and speak fair. This is no time for a high hand."

Charles, perforce, must promise mildness. He made the concession with
poor grace, but he made it. And in Philip's eyes grew a new admiration
for this hulking cousin and enemy, who ate his pride for a woman. At the
entrance to an upper room where hung a leather curtain, he stood aside.

"Softly," he said through his beard. "No harsh words. Send the child in
first."

So Philip went ponderously away and left Charles to cool his heels and
wait. As he stood there sheepishly he remembered many things with shame.
Joan, and the violence of the last months, and the Bishop's averted
head. For now he knew one thing, and knew it well. The lady of his heart
lay in that quiet room beyond; and the devils that had fought in him
were dead of a Christmas peace.

Little cries came to him, Clotilde's soft weeping, and another voice
that thrilled him, filled with the wooing note that is in a mother's
voice when she speaks to her child. But it was a feeble voice, and its
weakness struck terror to his soul. What was this thing for which he had
cast her away, now that he might lose her? His world shook under his
feet. His cousin and enemy was, willy-nilly, become his friend. His
world, which he had thought was his own domain, as far from his castle
as the eye could reach and as far again, was in an upper room of
Philip's house, and dying, perhaps.

But she was not dying. They admitted him in time to save his pride, for
he was close to distraction. And, being admitted, he saw only the woman
he had put away.

He went straight to his wife's bed and dropped on his knees beside it.
Not for his life could he have spoken then. Inarticulate things were in
his mind, remorse and the loneliness of the last months, and the shame
of the girl Joan.

He caught her hand to him and covered it with kisses.

"I have tried to