spare, as one who lived hardly; his grey eyes had a dreamy look
betokening much inward contemplation, though they could be keen enough
when, as now, the man was roused; there was a gentleness about his mouth
which showed a nature filled with love and sympathy.

The woman drew herself to her full stature, and turned on him a defiant
look.

"Gods or devils!" she said in a ringing tone--"which you will! What can
an immured anchorite know of the vast mysteries of the wind-borne
spirits? Is this child to live or die? My gods can save her; if yours
can, let them take her! She is nought to me."

"When Elijah wrestled with the prophets of Baal, where did victory
rest?" said the priest, and he too stooped down and inspected the wound.
"She is past cure," he said, rising sadly; "it remains but to pray for
her soul."

At this critical moment an agonizing shriek rang through the forest. The
same runners who had sped to Marie Torode's cottage and had learnt there
that the wise woman had in truth passed away, had brought back with
them Suzanne's mother, who threw herself on her child's body
endeavouring to staunch the blood, and to restore animation. Finding her
efforts vain, she had listened anxiously to the words that had passed,
and on hearing the priest's sentence of doom she burst into frantic
grief and supplication. Turning to each disputant she cried--"Save her!
save her young life! I suckled her, I reared her, I love her!--oh, how I
love her!--do not let her die!"

"She can be saved!" curtly responded the stranger. The priest was