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: