ugly business; your man of spirit will always
rush what he loathes but yet must do. Count Richard of Poictou, having
made up his mind and confessed himself overnight, must leave with the
first cock of the morning, yet must take the sacrament. Before it was
grey in the east he did so, fully armed in mail, with his red surcoat of
leopards upon him, his sword girt, his spurs strapped on. Outside the
chapel in the weeping mirk a squire held his shield, another his helm, a
groom walked his horse. Milo the Abbot was celebrant, a snuffling boy
served; the Count knelt before the housel-cloth haloed by the light of
two thin candles. Hardly had the priest begun his _introibo_ when Jehane
Saint-Pol, who had been awake all night, stole in with a hood on her
head, and holding herself very stiffly, knelt on the floor. She joined
her hands and stuck them up before her, so that the tips of her fingers,
pointing upwards as her thoughts would fly, were nearly level with her
chin. Thus frozen in prayer she remained throughout the office; nor did
she relax when at the elevation of the Host Richard bowed himself to the
earth. It seemed as if she too, bearing between her hands her own heart,
was lifting it up for sacrifice and for worship.

The Count was communicated. He was a very religious man, who would
sooner have gone without his sword than his Saviour upon any affairs.
Jehane saw him fed without a twitch of the lips. She was in a great
mood, a rapt and pillared saint; but when mass was over and his
thanksgiving to make, she got up and hid herself away from him in the
shades. There she lurked darkling, and he, lunging out, swept with his
sword's point the very edge of her gown. She did not hear him go, for he
trod like a cat; but she felt him touch her with the sword, and
shuddered once or twice. He went out of the courtyard at a gallop.

While the abbot was reciting his own thanksgiving Jehane came out of her
corner, minded to speak with him. So much he divined, needing not the
beckoning look she sent him from her guarded eyes. He sat himself down
by the altar of Saint Remy, and she knelt beside him.

'Well, my daughter?' says Milo.

'I think it is well,' she took him up.

The Abbot Milo, a red-faced, watery-eyed old man, rheumy and weathered
well, then opened his mouth and spake such wisdom as he knew. He held up
his forefinger like a claw, and used it as if describing signs and
wonders in the air.

'Hearken, Madame Jehane,' he