There, upon a chair set within the cloisters, in a place which the sunshine touched most lovingly and where it lingered longest, he sat, nodding his head to the sound of the sweet singing, and bowing low at each mention of the name of Jesus (as the custom is)—­a still, meditative, almost saintly man.  Upon the lap of his furred robe (for, after all, it was a sunshine with a certain shrewd wintriness in it) lay an illuminated copy of the Holy Gospels; and sometimes as he listened to the choir-boys singing, he glanced therein, and read of the little children to whom belongs the kingdom.  Upon occasion he lifted the book also, and looked with pleasure at the pictured cherubs who cheered the way of the Master Jerusalemwards with strewn palm leaves and shouted hosannas.

And ever sweeter and sweeter fell the music upon his ear, till suddenly, like the silence after a thunderclap, the organ ceased to roll, the choir was silent, and out of the quiet rose a single voice—­that of Laurence the Scot singing in a tenor of infinite sweetness the words of blessing: 

    “Suffer the little children to come unto Me,
      And forbid them not;
      For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

And as the boy’s voice welled out, clear and thrilling as the song of an upward pulsing lark, the tears ran down the face of Gilles de Retz.

God knows why.  Perhaps it was some glint of his own innocent childhood—­some half-dimmed memory of his happily dead mother.  Perhaps—­but enough.  Gilles de Laval de Retz went up the turret stair to find Poitou and Gilles de Sille on guard on either side the portals which closed his chamber.

“Is all ready?” he asked, though the tears were scarcely dry on his cheeks.

They bowed before him to the ground.

“All is ready, lord and master,” they said as with one voice.

“And Prelati?”

“He is in waiting.”

“And La Meffraye,” he went on, “has she arrived?”

“La Meffraye has arrived,” they said; “all goes fortunately.”

“Good!” said Gilles de Retz, and shedding his furred monkish cloak carelessly from off his shoulders, he went within.

Poitou and Gilles de Sille both reached to catch the mantle ere it fell.  As they did so their hands met and touched.  And at the meeting of each other’s flesh they started and drew apart.  Their eyes encountered furtively and were instantly withdrawn.  Then, having hung up the cloak, with pallid countenances and lips white and tremulous, they slowly followed the marshal within.

* * * * *

“Sybilla de Thouars, as you are in my power, so I bid you work my will!”

It was the deep, stern voice of the Marshal de Retz which spoke.  The Lady Sybilla lay back in a great chair with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and gently through her parted lips.  Messire Gilles stood before her with his hands joined palm to palm and his white fingertips almost touching the girl’s brow.