“I will not tell you,” said the son of Malise.

The marshal smiled again and nodded his head repeatedly with a certain gustful appreciation.

“You would make a good soldier.  It is a pity that I have gone out of the business.  Yet I have only (as it were) descended from wholesale to particular, from the gross to the detail.”

Laurence, who felt that the true policy was to be sparing of his words, made no answer.

“You say that you are a clerk.  Can you read Latin?”

“Yes,” said Laurence, “and write it too.”

“Read this, then,” said the marshal, and handed him a book.

Laurence had been well instructed in the humanities by Father Colin of Saint Michael’s Kirk by the side of Dee water, and he read the words, which record the cruelties of the Emperor Caligula with exactness and decorum.

“You read not ill,” said his auditor; “you have been well taught, though you have a vile foreign accent and know not the shades of meaning that lie in the allusions.

“You say that you came to Machecoul with desire to serve me,” the marshal continued after a pause for thought.  “In what manner did you think you could serve, and why went you not into the house of some other lord?”

“As to service,” said Laurence, “I came because I was invited by your henchman de Sille.  And as to what I can do, I profess that I can sing, having been well taught by a master, the best in my country.  I can play upon the viol and eke upon the organ.  I am fairly good at fence, and excellent as any at singlestick.  I can faithfully carry a message and loyally serve those who trust me.  I would have some money to spend, which I have never had.  I wish to live a life worth living, wherein is pleasure and pain, the lack of sameness, and the joy of things new.  And if that may not be—­why, I am ready to die, that I may make proof whether there be anything better beyond.”

“A most philosophic creed,” cried the marshal.  “Well, there is one thing in which I can prove, if indeed you lie not.  Sing!”

Then Laurence stood up and sang, even as the choir had done, the lamentation of Rachel according to the setting of the Roman precentor.

    “A voice was heard in Ramah!”

And as he sang, the Lord of Retz took up the strain, and, with true accord and feeling, accompanied him to the end.

[Illustration:  THE PRISONERS OF THE WHITE TOWER.]

“Brava!” cried Gilles de Retz when Laurence had finished; “that is truly well sung indeed!  You shall sing it alone in my chapel next feast day of the Holy Innocents.”

He paused as if to consider his words.

“And now for this time go.  But remember that this Castle of Machecoul is straiter than any prison cell, and better guarded than a fortress.  It is surrounded with constant watchers, secret, invisible, implacable.  Whoso tries to escape, dies.  You are a bold lad, and, as I think, fear not much death for yourself.  But come hither, and I will show you something which will chain you here.”