And therewith there was a tired sound in the tread, as if the Templar found his weird a very length one; then a long heavy breath, with something so essentially human in its sound that the fluttering heart beat more steadily.  If reason told her that the living were more perilous to her than the dead, yet feeling infinitely preferred them!  It might be Nanon Rotrou after all; then how foolish to be crouching there in a fright!  It was rustling through the hay.  No-no Nanon; it is a male figure, it has a long cloak on.  Ah! it is in the moonlight-silver hair—­silver beard.  The Templar!  Fascinated with dismay, yet calling to mind that no ghost has power unless addressed, she sat still, crossing herself in silence, but unable to call to mind any prayer or invocation save a continuous ‘Ave Mary,’ and trying to restrain her gasping breath, lest, if he were not the Templar after all, he might discover her presence.

He moved about, took off his cloak, laid it down near the hay, then his cap, not a helmet after all, and there was no fiery cross.

He was in the gloom again, and she heard him moving much as though he were pulling down the hay to form a bed.  Did ghosts ever do anything so sensible?  If he were an embodied spirit, would it be possible to creep past him and escape while he lay asleep?  She was almost becoming familiarized with the presence, and the supernatural terror was passing off into a consideration of resources, when, behold, he was beginning to sing.  To sing was the very way the ghosts began ere they came to their devilish outcries.  ‘Our Lady keep it from bringing frenzy.  But hark! hark!’ It was not one of the chants, it was a tune and words heard in older times of her life; it was the evening hymn, that the little husband and wife had been wont to sing to the Baron in the Chateau de Leurre—­ Marot’s version of the 4th Psalm.

’Plus de joie m’est donnee Par ce moyen, O Dieu Tres-Haut, Que n’ont ceux qui ont grand annee De froment et bonne vinee, D’huile et tout ce qu’il leur faut.’

If it had indeed been the ghostly chant, perhaps Eustacie would not have been able to help joining it.  As it was, the familiar home words irresistibly impelled her to mingle her voice, scarce knowing what she did, in the verse—­

’Si qu’en paix et surete bonne Coucherai et reposerai ; Car, Seigneur, ta bonte tout ordonne Et elle seule espoir me donne Que sur et seul regnant serai.’

The hymn died away in its low cadence, and then, ere Eustacie had had time to think of the consequences of thus raising her voice, the new-comer demanded: 

‘Is there then another wanderer here?’

‘Ah! sir, pardon me!’ she exclaimed.  ’I will not long importune you, but only till morning light—­only till the Fermiere Rotrou comes.’

‘If Matthieu and Anne Rotrou placed you here, then all is well,’ replied the stranger.  ’Fear not, daughter, but tell me.  Are you one of my scattered flock, or one whose parents are known to me?’ Then, as she hesitated, ’I am Isaac Gardon—­escaped, alas! alone, from the slaughter of the Barthelemy.’