“I will go to my sister,” she said to Sholto, who came to know how he could serve her.  “It matters little.  My work is nearly done!”

So, riding as was her custom all alone upon a white palfrey, she passed out of their sight towards the south.

* * * * *

In the city of Nantes the rumour of the taking of Gilles de Retz had spread like wild-fire, and as the cavalcade rode through the streets, the windows rained down curses and the citizens hooted up from the sidewalks.  But the marshal kept his haughty and disdainful regard, appearing like a noble nature who perforce companies for the nonce with meaner men.  He sat his favourite charger like a true companion of Dunois and De Richemont, and, as more than one remarked, on this occasion he looked like the royal prince and the Duke of Brittany the prisoner.

So in the New Tower of the Castle of Nantes, Gilles de Retz was placed to wait his trial.  There is no need to give a long account of it.  The documents have been printed in plain letter, and all the world knows how Clerk Henriet faltered under the stern questioning of Pierre de l’Hopital, and how finally he declared fully all these iniquities without parallel in which he had borne so cruel a part.

Poitou, more faithful to his master, held out till the threat of torture and the appeals of his friend Henriet broke him down.  But the attitude and bearing of the chief culprit deserve that the historian should not wholly pass them over.

Even in his first haughty and contemptuous silence, Gilles de Retz was shifting his ground, and with a cool unheated intelligence orienting himself to new conditions.  It soon became evident to his mind that the powers of Evil in which he trusted, and to whose service he had consecrated his life and fortune, had befooled and betrayed him.

Well—­even so would he fool them—­if, by the grace of God, there were yet any merit or hope in the service of Good.  The priests said so.  The Scripture said so, and they might be right after all.  At least, the thing was worth trying.

For a cold and calculating brain lay behind the worst excesses of the terrible Lord de Retz.  The religion of the Cross might not be of much final use—­still, it was all that remained, and Gilles de Retz determined to avail himself of it.  So once more he apostasised from Barran-Sathanas to Jehovah.

With an effrontery almost too stupendous for belief, he arrayed himself in the white robes of a Carmelite novice and spent his prison days in singing litanies and in private confession with his religious adviser.

When the great day of the trial at last arrived, the marshal, who had expected on the bench the weak kindly countenance of Duke John, was called upon to confront the indomitable judicial rectitude of Pierre de l’Hopital, President and Grand-Seneschal of Brittany.

Gilles de Retz appeared at his trial dressed in white of the richest materials and with all his military decorations upon him.  But his judge, habited in stern and simple black, was not in the least intimidated.