"I know not what yon mean."
The other resumed, "Tête Dieu! What was it that frightened archdeacon said? Where is he?"
"Monseigneur," said a soldier, "he has disappeared."
"Come, now, old madwoman," began the commander again, "do not lie. A sorceress was given in charge to you. What have you done with her?"
The recluse did not wish to deny all, for fear of awakening suspicion, and replied in a sincere and surly tone,—
"If you are speaking of a big young girl who was put into my hands a while ago, I will tell you that she bit me, and that I released her. There! Leave me in peace."
The commander made a grimace of disappointment.
"Don't lie to me, old spectre!" said he. "My name is Tristan l'Hermite, and I am the king's gossip. Tristan the Hermit, do you hear?" He added, as he glanced at the Place de Grève around him, "'Tis a name which has an echo here."
"You might be Satan the Hermit," replied Gudule, who was regaining hope, "but I should have nothing else to say to you, and I should never be afraid of you."
"Tête-Dieu," said Tristan, "here is a crone! Ah! So the witch girl hath fled! And in which direction did she go?"
Gudule replied in a careless tone,—
"Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe."
Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare to set out on the march again. The recluse breathed freely once more.
"Monseigneur," suddenly said an archer, "ask the old elf why the bars of her window are broken in this manner."
This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserable mother. Nevertheless, she did not lose all presence of mind.
"They have always been thus," she stammered.
"Bah!" retorted the archer, "only yesterday they still formed a fine black cross, which inspired devotion."
Tristan cast a sidelong glance at the recluse.
"I think the old dame is getting confused!"
The unfortunate woman felt that all depended on her self-
