I was about to ring the bell, when from the gate of the burial-ground the Mother Superior came at a slow pace.  The old woman was frowning as she walked, and her frown deepened at sight of me.  But I, caring nothing for what she thought, ran up to her, crying before I had well reached her: 

“Is Marie Delhasse still here?”

The Mother stopped dead, and regarded me with disapprobation.

“What business is it of yours, sir, where the young woman is?” she asked.

“I mean her no harm,” I urged eagerly.  “If she is safe here, I ask to know no more; I don’t even ask to see her.  Is she here?  The Duchess of Saint-Maclou told me that you refused to send her away.”

“God forbid that I should send away any sinner who will find refuge here,” she said solemnly.  “You have seen the duchess?”

“Yes; she is at home.  But Mlle. Delhasse?”

But the old woman would not be hurried.  She asked again: 

“What concern have you, sir, with Marie Delhasse?”

I looked her in the face as I answered plainly: 

“To save her from the Duke of Saint-Maclou.”

“And from her own mother, sir?”

“Yes, above all from her own mother.”

The old woman started at my words; but there was no change in the level calm of her voice as she asked: 

“And why would you rescue her?”

“For the same reason that any gentleman would, if he could.  If you want more—­”

She held up her hand to silence me; but her look was gentler and her voice softer, as she said: 

“You, sir, cannot save, and I cannot save, those who will not let God himself save them.”

“What do you mean?” I cried in a frenzy of fear and eagerness.

“I had prayed for her, and talked with her.  I thought I had seen grace in her.  Well, I know not.  It is true that she acted as her mother bade her.  But I fear all is not well.”

“I pray you to speak plainly.  Where is she?”

“I do not know where she is.  What I know, sir, you shall know, for I believe you come in honesty.  This morning—­some two hours ago—­a carriage drove from the town here.  Mme. Delhasse was in it, and with her the Duke of Saint-Maclou.  I could not refuse to let the woman see her daughter.  They spoke together for a time; and then they called me, and Marie—­yes, Marie herself—­begged me to let her see the duke.  So they came here where we stand, and I stood a few yards off.  They talked earnestly in low tones.  And at last Marie came to me (the others remaining where they were), and took my hand and kissed it, thanking me and bidding me adieu.  I was grieved, sir, for I trusted that the girl had found peace here; and she was in the way to make us love her.  ‘Does your mother bid you go?’ I asked, ‘And will she save you from all harm?’ And she answered:  ’I go of my own will, Mother; but I go hoping to return.’  ’You swear that you go of your own will?’ I asked.  ‘Yes, of my own will,’ she said firmly; but she was near to weeping as she spoke.  Yet what could I do?  I could but tell her that our door—­God’s door—­was never shut.  That I told her; and with a heavy heart, being able to do nothing else, I let her go.  I pray God no harm come of it.  But I thought the man’s face wore a look of triumph.”