There was more than one council of war within the bounds of the circle of hills that closed in little Collioure that night.

First, that which was held within the kitchen-place of La Masane. The maids were busied with the cattle, but all three brothers were there. The Senora, sloe-eyed and vivid, continually interrupted, now by spoken word, now trotting to the steaming casseroles upon the fire, anon darting to the door to make sure that this time no unwelcome visitor should steal upon them at unawares.

When Claire had told her story, the three men sat grave and silent, each deep in his own thoughts. Only the Senora was voluble in her astonishment. She thought she knew her foster-child.

“He had, indeed, ever the grasping hand,” she said, “therefore I had thought he would have married lands wide and rich with some dwarfish bride, or else a merchant’s daughter of Barcelona, whose Peruvian dollars needed the gilding of his nobility. But Claire and she is his cousin too !”

“Also no Catholic nor ever will be!” interrupted Claire hotly.

The old lady sighed. This was a sore subject with her. Had she not spent three reals every week in candles at the shrine of the Virgin in the Church of Collioure, sending down the money by one of her maidens, all to give effect to her prayers for the conversion of her guest? For Donna Amelie believed, as every Spanish woman does in her heart believe, that out of the fold of the Church is no salvation.

“Ah, well,” she murmured on this occasion, “that was your father’s teaching on him be the sin.”

For dying unconfessed, as Francis Agnew had done, she thought a little more would not matter.

“I have been too long away to guess his meaning, maybe,” said the Professor at last; “for me I would give well, no matter he is not the man, as I read him, to fall honestly in love even with the fairest girl that lives !”

“You are not polite,” said Claire defiantly; “surely the man may like me for myself as well as another? Allow him that, at least!”

But the Professor only put out his hand as if to quiet a fretting child. It was a serious question, that which was before them to settle. They must work it out with slow masculine persistence.

“Wait a little, Claire,” he said tenderly; “what say my brothers?” The Alcalde in turn shook his head more gravely than usual.

“No,” he said, “there is something rascally at the back of Don Raphael’s brain. I will wager that he knew of his cousin being here the first night he came to La Masane!”

“I have it,” cried Don Jordy; “I remember there was something in his grandfather’s will (yours, too, my pretty lady!) about a portion to be laid aside for his daughter Colette. I have seen a copy of the deed in the episcopal registry. It was very properly drawn by one of my predecessors. Now, old Don Emmanuel-Stephane Llorient lived so long that all his sons died or got themselves killed before him it never was a hard matter to pick a quarrel with a Llorient of Collioure. So this grandson Raphael had his grandfather’s estates to play ducks and drakes with ”

“More ducks than drakes,” put in the sententious miller.

“Also,” the lawyer continued, without heeding, “I would wager that to-day there is but little left of the patrimony of little Colette, your mother, and ”

“He would marry you to hide his misuse of your money!” cried the miller, slapping his thigh, as if he had discovered the whole plot single-handed.

“Exactly,” said Don Jordy, “he would cover his misappropriation with the cloak of marriage. I warrant also he has lied to the King as to the amount of the legacy, perhaps denying that there was any benefice at all saying that he had paid the amount to your father or what not! And our most catholic Philip can forgive all sins except those which lose him money so Master Raphael finds himself in a tight place!”

The silence which followed Don Jordy’s exposition was a solemn one that is, to all except Claire, who only pouted a little with ostentatious discontent.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she cried; “money or no money, will or no will, it is just as possible that he wants to marry me because because he wants to marry me! There!”

But the Senora knew better.

“True it is, my little lady,” she said, nodding her head, “that any man might wisely and gladly crave your love and your hand aye, any honest man, were he a king’s son (here Claire thought of a certain son of Saint Louis, many times removed, now mending his shoes on the corner of a farrier’s anvil in the camp of the Bearnais) an honest man, I said. But not Raphael Llorient, your cousin, and my foster-son. He never had a thought but for himself since he was a babe, and even then he would thrust Don Jordy there aside, as if I had not been his mother. I was a strong woman in those days, and suckled twins or what is harder, a foster-child and mine own, doing justice to both!”

And Claire, a little awed by the old lady’s vehemence, jested no more.

There was little said till Donna Amelie took Claire up with her to her chamber, and the three men were left alone. The Professor sighed deeply.

“Women are kittle handling,” he said. “I brought you a little orphan maid. I knew, indeed, that she was Colette Llorient’s daughter, and that there was some risk in that. But with her cousin Raphael, wistful to marry her for a rich heiress, whose property he has squandered that is more than I reckoned with!”

“There is no going back when a woman leads the way,” slowly enunciated the Alcalde.

“Who spoke of going back?” cried the Professor indignantly. “I have taken the risk of bringing the maid here, thinking to place her in safety with my mother. Neither she nor I will fail. We will keep her with our lives aye, and so will you, brothers!”

“So we will!” said Jean-Marie and Don Jordy together, “of course!”

“Pity it is for another man!” said the lawyer grimly “that is, if what Anatole says be true.”

“It is too true!” said the Professor bravely “true and natural and right, that the young should seek the young and love the young and cleave to the young!”

“That, at least, is comforting for those who (like myself) are still young!” said Don Jordy, with some mockery in his tone; “for you and the Alcalde there, the comfort is somewhat chilly!”

And neither of his seniors could find it in their hearts to contradict Don Jordy.

The brothers conferred long together, and at last found nothing better than that Claire should remain at La Masane with their mother, while she should be solemnly charged not to leave the house except in company with one of the three brothers. They would mount guard one by one, and even the master of the Castle of Collioure would hardly venture to violate the sanctuary of the Mas of La Masane.

Curiously enough, in their arrangements, none of them thought once of Jean-aux-Choux. Yet, had they but looked out of the door, they would have seen Jean wrapped in his rough shepherd’s cloak, leaning his chin on his five-foot staff, his great wolf-hound at attention, his flock clumped about his feet, but his eyes fixed on the lonely Mas where, in the twilight, these three brothers sat and discussed with knitted brows concerning the fate of Claire Agnew.