“Amen!” the Cure of St.-Benoist muttered, lifting his head; and his dull eyes glowed awhile.  “Amen!  Amen!” Then his chin sank again upon his breast.

But the Canons of Angers looked doubtfully at one another, and timidly at the speakers; the meat was too strong for them.  And Lescot and Thuriot shuffled in their seats.  At length, “I do not know,” Lescot muttered timidly.

“You do not know?”

“What can be done!”

“The people will know!” Father Pezelay retorted “Trust them!”

“But the people will not rise without a leader.”

“Then will I lead them!”

“Even so, reverend Father—­I doubt,” Lescot faltered.  And Thuriot nodded assent.  Gibbets were erected in those days rather for laymen than for the Church.

“You doubt!” the priest cried.  “You doubt!” His baleful eyes passed from one to the other; from them to the rest of the company.  He saw that with the exception of the Cure of St.-Benoist all were of a mind.  “You doubt!  Nay, but I see what it is!  It is this,” he continued slowly and in a different tone, “the King’s will goes for nothing in Angers!  His writ runs not here.  And Holy Church cries in vain for help against the oppressor.  I tell you, the sorceress who has bewitched him has bewitched you also.  Beware! beware, therefore, lest it be with you as with him!  And the fire that shall consume her, spare not your houses!”

The two citizens crossed themselves, grew pale and shuddered.  The fear of witchcraft was great in Angers, the peril, if accused of it, enormous.  Even the Canons looked startled.

“If—­if my brother were here,” the Archdeacon repeated feebly, “something might be done!”

“Vain is the help of man!” the priest retorted sternly, and with a gesture of sublime dismissal.  “I turn from you to a mightier than you!” And, leaning his head on his hands, he covered his face.

The Archdeacon and the churchmen looked at him, and from him their scared eyes passed to one another.  Their one desire now was to be quit of the matter, to have done with it, to escape; and one by one with the air of whipped curs they rose to their feet, and in a hurry to be gone muttered a word of excuse shamefacedly and got themselves out of the room.  Lescot and the printer were not slow to follow, and in less than a minute the two strange preachers, the men from Paris, remained the only occupants of the chamber; save, to be precise, a lean official in rusty black, who throughout the conference had sat by the door.

Until the last shuffling footstep had ceased to sound in the still cloister no one spoke.  Then Father Pezelay looked up, and the eyes of the two priests met in a long gaze.

“What think you?” Pezelay muttered at last.

“Wet hay,” the other answered dreamily, “is slow to kindle, yet burns if the fire be big enough.  At what hour does he state his will?”