When Valentine la Nina left him in the summer parlour where their interview had taken place, the Abbe John made no attempt to free himself. He seemed still half-unconscious, and, indeed, proceeded without rhyme or reason to make some repairs in the once gay court suit, exactly as if he had been seated in his tent in the camp of the Bearnais.

As yet he had no thought of escape. He was in the fortress of the Inquisition. The influence of the Place of Eyes was on him still. To escape appeared an impossibility to his weakened mind. Indeed, he thought only of the strange girl who had just talked with him. Was she indeed a king’s daughter, with provinces to bring in dower, or No, she could not lie. He was sure of that. She did not lie, certainly, decided the Abbe John, with natural masculine favour towards a beautiful woman. A girl like that could not have lied. Mad perhaps, yes, a little but to lie, impossible.

So in that quiet place, he watched the slow wheeling of the long checkered bars of the window grille, and the shadows made by the branches of the Judas tree in the courtyard move regularly across the carpet. One of the leaves boarded his foot as he looked, climbed up the instep, and made a pretty shifting pattern upon the silken toe.

The Abbe John had resumed his customary position of easy self-possession one ankle perched upon the opposing knee, his head thrown far back, his dark hair in some disorder, but curling naturally and densely, none the less picturesque because of that when Valentine la Nina re-entered.

He rose at once, and in some surprise. She held a knife in her hand, and her face carried something about it of wild and dangerous, a kind of storm-sunshine, as it seemed.

“Hum,” thought the Abbe John, as he looked at her, “I had better have stayed in the Place of Eyes! I see not why all this should happen to me. I am an easy man, and have always done what I could to content a lady. But this one asks too much. And then, after all, now there is Claire! I told her so. It is very tiresome!”

Nevertheless he smiled his sweet, careless smile, and swept back his curls with his hand.

“If I am to die, a fellow may as well do it with some grace,” he murmured; “I wish I had been more fit if only Claire had had the time to make me a better man!”

Yet it is to be feared that even in that moment the Abbe John thought more of the process (as outlined in his mind with Claire as instructress) than of the very desirable result.

What the thoughts of Valentine la Nina were when she left the presence of her uncle could hardly be defined even to her own mind. But seeing this young man so easy, so debonair in spite of his dishevelled appearance, the girl only held out her left hand. A faint smile, like the sun breaking momentarily through the thunder-clouds, appeared on her lips.

“I was wrong,” she said; “let me help you only I ask no more. Come!”

And without another word she led him into a narrow passage, between two high walls. They passed door after door, all closed, one of them being the chamber of Mariana, in which he sat like a spider spinning webs for the Society of the Gesù. What might have happened if that door had been suddenly opened in their faces also remains a mystery. For Valentine’s arm was strong, and the dagger her hand held was sharp.

However, as it chanced, the doors remained shut, so that when they came to a little wicket, of solid iron like all the rest, the steel blade of the dagger still shone bright.

Then Valentine la Nina snatched from a nail the long black mantle, with which any who left the House of the Holy Office by that door concealed from the curious their rank or errand. She flung it about John d’Albret’s shoulders with a single movement of her arm.

“I do what I can,” she said, “yield me the justice to allow that. I am giving you a chance to return to her. There take it now you are armed!”

She gave him the knife, and the sheath from which she had drawn it in her uncle’s bureau.

“And now, bid me farewell no thanks I do not want them! You will not, I know, forget me, and I only ask you to pray that I may be able to forget you!”

The Abbe John stooped to kiss her hand, but she snatched it behind her quickly.

“I think I deserve so much,” she said softly, holding up her face, “not even she would deny me!”

And the Abbe John, quieting his soul by the vow of necessity, future confession, and absolution, kissed Valentine la Nina.

She gave one little sobbing cry, and would have fallen, had he not caught her. But she shook him off, striking angrily at his wrist with her clenched hand.

“No! No! No!” she cried; “go I bid you go, do not heed me. I am well. They may be here any moment. They are ever on the watch. It cannot be long. Go. I am repaid. She has never risked as much for you! Lock the door without!”

And she pushed him into the street, shut the door, and fell in a white heap fainting behind it, as John d’Albret turned the key outside.