"The child Clotilde is gone!" they cried through the streets. "Up and
arm. The child Clotilde is gone."

Joan, deserted, sat alone in the great hall. For the _seigneur_ was off,
riding like a madman. Flying through the Market Square, he took the
remains of the great fire at a leap. He had but one thought. The Jew had
stolen the child; therefore, to find the Jew.

In the blackest of the night he found him, sitting by the road, bent
over his staff. The eyes he raised to Charles were haggard and weary.
Charles reined his horse back on his haunches, his men-at-arms behind
him.

"What have you done with the child?"

"The child?"

"Out with it," cried Charles and flung himself from his horse. If the
Jew were haggard, Charles was more so, hard bitten of terror, pallid to
the lips.

"I have seen no child. That is--" He hastened to correct himself, seeing
Charles' face in the light of a torch. "I was released by a child, a
girl. I have not seen her since."

He spoke with the simplicity of truth. In the light of the torches
Charles' face went white.

"She released you?" he repeated slowly. "What did she say?"