your mother to Himself, it will doubtless be for her happiness--in
another world," he added, and his voice dropped still lower. "And for
ours in this," he thought within himself.

The Dame of Rupelmonde was lady of seven fiefs beside the barony of
Gavres.

The girl felt the longing for life in her heart, and for love that
spoke through the handsome adventurer, a young miscreant who haunted
churches in search of a prize, an heiress to marry, or ready money.
The Bishop bestowed his benison on the waves, and bade them be calm;
it was all that he could do. He thought of his concubine, and of the
delicate feast with which she would welcome him; perhaps at that very
moment she was bathing, perfuming herself, robing herself in velvet,
fastening her necklace and her jeweled clasps; and the perverse
Bishop, so far from thinking of the power of Holy Church, of his duty
to comfort Christians and exhort them to trust in God, mingled worldly
regrets and lover's sighs with the holy words of the breviary. By the
dim light that shone on the pale faces of the company, it was possible
to see their differing expressions as the boat was lifted high in air
by a wave, to be cast back into the dark depths; the shallop quivered
like a fragile leaf, the plaything of the north wind in the autumn;
the hull creaked, it seemed ready to go to pieces. Fearful shrieks
went up, followed by an awful silence.

There was a strange difference between the behavior of the folk in the
bows and that of the rich or great people at the other end of the
boat. The young mother clasped her infant tightly to her breast every
time that a great wave threatened to engulf the fragile vessel; but
she clung to the hope that the stranger's words had set in her heart.