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 said. 'I say that you have done well, and
will maintain it. That great prince, whom I love like my own son, is not