corpse of some person of distinction; for the cortege consisted mainly of priests and the like mounted on mules, and clothed for the most part in black.  Black also was the small banner which waved above them, and bore in place of arms the emblem of the Bleeding Heart.  But a second glance failed to discover either litter or bier; and a nearer approach showed that the travellers, whether they wore the tonsure or not, bore weapons of one kind or another.

Suddenly Madame St. Lo clapped her hands, and proclaimed in great astonishment that she knew them.

“Why, there is Father Boucher, the Cure of St. Benoist!” she said, “and Father Pezelay of St. Magloire.  And there is another I know, though I cannot remember his name!  They are preachers from Paris!  That is who they are!  But what can they be doing here?  Is it a pilgrimage, think you?”

“Ay, a pilgrimage of Blood!” Count Hannibal answered between his teeth.  And, turning to him to learn what moved him, she saw the look in his eyes which portended a storm.  Before she could ask a question, however, the gloomy company, which had first appeared in the distance, moving, an inky blot, through the hot sunshine of the summer morning, had drawn near, and was almost abreast of them.  Stepping from her side, he raised his hand and arrested the march.

“Who is master here?” he asked haughtily.

“I am the leader,” answered a stout pompous Churchman, whose small malevolent eyes belied the sallow fatuity of his face.  “I, M. de Tavannes, by your leave.”

“And you, by your leave,” Tavannes sneered, “are—­”

“Archdeacon and Vicar of the Bishop of Angers and Prior of the Lesser Brethren of St. Germain, M. le Comte.  Visitor also of the Diocese of Angers,” the dignitary continued, puffing out his cheeks, “and Chaplain to the Lieutenant-Governor of Saumur, whose unworthy brother I am.”

“A handsome glove, and well embroidered!” Tavannes retorted in a tone of disdain.  “The hand I see yonder!” He pointed to the lean parchment mask of Father Pezelay, who coloured ever so faintly, but held his peace under the sneer.  “You are bound for Angers?” Count Hannibal continued.  “For what purpose, Sir Prior?”

“His Grace the Bishop is absent, and in his absence—­”

“You go to fill his city with strife!  I know you!  Not you!” he continued, contemptuously turning from the Prior, and regarding the third of the principal figures of the party.  “But you!  You were the Cure who got the mob together last All Souls’.”

“I speak the words of Him Who sent me!” answered the third Churchman, whose brooding face and dull curtained eyes gave no promise of the fits of frenzied eloquence which had made his pulpit famous in Paris.