To their conversation she listened as one who listens for his life,—­to the reading of the Scripture,—­to the singing of the psalm,—­that grand old version,—­

  “Out of the depths I cry to thee,
  Lord God!  Oh, hear my prayer! 
  Incline a gracious ear to me,
  And bid me not despair. 
  If thou rememberest each misdeed,
  If each should have its rightful meed,
  Lord, who shall stand before thee?

  “Lord, through thy love alone we gain
  The pardon of our sin: 
  The strictest life is but in vain,
  Our works can nothing win,
  That man should boast himself of aught,
  But own in fear thy grace hath wrought
  What in him seemeth righteous.

  “Wherefore my hope is in the Lord,
  My works I count but dust;
  I build not there, but on his word,
  And in his goodness trust. 
  Up to his care myself I yield;
  He is my tower, my rook, my shield,
  And for his help I tarry.”

To the praying of the broken voice of John Leclerc she listened.  In his prayer she joined.  To the eloquence of Mazurier, whose utterances she laid up in her heart,—­to the fervor of Le Roy, which left her eyes not dry, her soul not calm, but strong in its commotion, grasping fast the eternal truths which he, too, would proclaim, she listened.

She was not only now among them, she was of them,—­of them forevermore.  Though she should never again look on those faces, nor listen to those voices, of them, of all they represented, was she forevermore.  Their God was hers,—­their faith was hers; their danger would she share,—­their work would aid.

Their talk was of the Truth, and of the future of the Truth.  Well they understood that the spirit roused among the people would not be quieted again,—­that what of ferocity in the nature of the bigot and the powerful had been appeased had but for the moment been satisfied.  There would be unremitting watch for victims; everywhere the net for the unwary and the fearless would be laid.  Blood-thirstiness and lust and covetousness would make grand their disguises,—­broad would their phylacteries be made,—­shining with sacred gems, their breast-plates.

Of course it was of the great God’s honor these men would be jealous.  This heresy must needs be uprooted, or no knowing where would be the end of the wild growth.  And, indeed, there was no disputing the fact that there was danger in open acceptance of such doctrines as defied the authority of priestcraft,—­ay, danger to falsehood, and death to falsehood!

Fanaticism, cowardice, cruelty, the spirit of persecution, the spirit of authority aroused, ignorance and vanity and foolishness would make themselves companions, no doubt.  Should Truth succumb to these?  Should Love retreat before the fierce onset of Hate?  These brave men said not so.  And they looked above them and all human aid for succor,—­Jacqueline with them.

When Mazurier and Victor Le Roy went away, they left Jacqueline with the wool-comber’s mother, but they did not pass by her without notice.  Martial lingered for a moment, looking down on the young girl.