for you, nor for another. No, no. He is married already.'

He hoped to startle her, the old rhetorician; but he failed. Jehane was
too dreary.

'He is married, my daughter,' he repeated; 'and to whom? Why, to
himself. That man from the birth has been a lonely soul. He can never
wed, as you understand it. You think him your lover! Believe me, he is
not. He is his own lover. He is called. He has a destiny. And what is
that? you ask me.'

She did not, but rhetoric bade him suppose it. 'Salem is his destiny;
Salem is his bride, the elect lady in bonds. He will not wed Madame
Alois of France, nor you, nor any virgin in Christendom until that
spiritual wedlock is consummate. I should not love him as I do if I did
not believe it. For why? Shall I call my own son apostate? He is signed
with the Cross, a married man, by our Saviour!'

He leaned back in his chair, peering down at her to see how she took it.
She took it stilly, and turned him a marble, storm-purged face, a pair
of eyes which seemed all black.

'What shall I do to be safe?' Her voice sounded worn.

'Safe, my child?' He wondered. 'Bless me, is not the Cross safety?'

'Not with him, father.'

This was perfectly true, though tainted with scandal, he thought. The
abbot, who was trained to blink all such facts, had to learn that this