. Again and
again it charged upon the crowd, rushed up and down, round and round,
biting, tearing with its great teeth so fearfully that a large circle
was made around the grand abbot, who was finally left alone in face of
the wolf. For a wolf it was. And the grand abbot having touched it with
his crosier, the wolf crouched at his feet, panting, trembling, and
bloody.

Gildas the Wise bent over it, looked at it attentively, then said,--

"Nothing happens contrary to God's will. Where is Dame Josserande?"

"I am here," replied a mournful voice full of tears, "and I dread a
great misfortune."

She also was alone; for Matheline and Pol Bihan, seized with terror, had
rushed across the fields at the first alarm and abandoned their
precious charge. The grand abbot called Josserande and said,--

"Woman, do not despair. Above you is the Infinite Goodness, who holds in
His hands the heavens and the whole earth. Meanwhile, protect your wolf;
we must return to the monastery to gain from sleep strength to serve the
Lord our God!"

And he resumed his course, followed by his escort.

The wolf did not move; his tongue lay on the snow, which was reddened by
his blood. Josserande knelt beside him and prayed fervently. For whom?
For her beloved son. Did she already know that the wolf was Sylvestre
Ker? Certainly; such a thing could scarcely be divined; but under what
form cannot a mother discover her darling child?

She defended the wolf against the peasants, who had returned to strike
him with their pitchforks and pikes, as they believed him dead. The two
last who came were Pol Bihan and Matheline. Pol Bihan kicked him on the
head, and said, "Take that, you fool!" and Matheline threw stones at
him, and cried: "Idiot, take that, and that, and that!"

They had hoped for all the gold in the world, and this dead beast could
give them nothing more.

After a while two ragged beggars passed by and assisted Josserande in
carrying the wolf into the tower. Where is charity most often found?
Among the poor, who are the figures Of Jesus Christ.

X.

Day dawned. A man slept in the bed of Sylvestre Ker, where widow
Josserande had laid a wolf. The room still bore the marks of a fire, and
snow fell through the hole in the roof. The young tenant's face was
disfigured with blows, and his hair, stiffened with blood, hung in heavy
locks. In his feverish sleep he talked, and the name that escaped his
lips was Matheline's. At his bedside the