Thinking and planning, Belasez fell asleep.

The ordeal did not come off immediately. It seemed to Belasez as if her father would gladly have avoided it altogether; but she was tolerably sure that her mother would not allow him much peace till it was done.

"Delecresse," she said, the first time she was alone with her brother, "had we ever a sister?"

"Never, to my knowledge," said Delecresse, looking as if he wondered what had put that notion into her head.

Evidently he knew nothing.

Genta, who was constantly coming in and out, for her home was in the same short street, dropped in during the evening, and Belasez carried her off to her own little bed-chamber, which was really a goodsized closet, on the pretext of showing her some new embroidery.

"Genta," she said, "tell me when my sister died."

"Thy sister, Belasez?" Genta's expression was one of most innocent perplexity. "Hadst thou ever a sister?"

"Had I not?"

"I never heard of one."

"Think, Genta I was she not called Anegay?"

Genta's shake of the head was decided enough to settle any question, but Belasez fancied she caught a momentary flash in her eyes which was by no means a negation.

But Belasez did not hear a few sentences that were uttered before Genta left the house.

"Aunt Licorice, what has Belasez got in her head?"

"Nay, what has she, Genta?"

"I am sure some one has been telling her something. She has asked me to-night if she had not once a sister, and if her name were not Anegay."

The exclamation in reply was more forcible than elegant. But that night, as Belasez lay in bed, through half-closed eyes she saw her mother enter and hold the lantern to her face. I am sorry to add that Belasez instantly counterfeited profound sleep; and Licorice retired with apparent satisfaction.

"Husband!" she heard her mother say, a few minutes later, "either some son of a Philistine has told that child something, or she has overheard our words."

"What makes thee think so?" Abraham's tone was one of great distress, if not terror.

"She has been asking questions of Genta. But she has got hold of the wrong pattern--she fancies Anegay was her sister."

"Does she?" replied Abraham, in a tone of sorrowful tenderness.

"There's less harm in her thinking that, than if she knew the truth.

Genta showed great good sense: she professed to know nothing at all about it."

"Dissimulation again, Licorice!" came, with a heavy sigh, from Abraham.

"Hold thy tongue! Where should we be without it?"

Abraham made no answer. But early on the following morning he summoned Belasez to the little porch-chamber, and she went with her heart beating.

As she suspected, the catechism was now to be gone through. But poor Abraham was the more timid of the two. He was so evidently unwilling to speak, and so regretfully tender, that Belasez's heart warmed, and she lost all her shyness. Of course, she told him more than she otherwise would have done.

Belasez denied the existence of any Christian lover, or indeed of any lover at all, with such clear, honest eyes, that Abraham could not but believe her. But, he urged, had she ever seen any man in the Castle, to speak to him?

"Yes," said Belasez frankly. "Not while the Lady was there. But during her absence, Sir Richard de Clare had been three times in the bower, and the priests had given lessons to the damsels in the ante-chamber."

"Did any of these ever speak to thee?"

"Sir Richard never spoke to me but twice, further than to say 'Good morrow.' Once he admired a pattern I was working, and once he asked me, when I came in from the leads, if it were raining."

"Didst thou care for him, my daughter?"

"Not in the least," said Belasez, "nor he for me. I rather think Damsel Margaret was his attraction." Her father seemed satisfied on that point. "And these priests? How many were there?" Belasez told him.

"Master Aristoteles the physician, and Father Nicholas, and Father Warner, chaplains of my Lord the Earl; and the chaplain of the Lady."

She hardly knew what instinct made her unwilling to utter Father Bruno's name; and, most unintentionally, she blushed.

"Oh!" said Abraham to himself, "the Lady's chaplain is the dangerous person.--Are they old men, my child?"

"None of them is either very old or very young, Father."

"Describe them to me, I pray thee."

"Master Aristoteles I cannot describe, for I have only heard his voice.

Father Nicholas is about fifty, I should think: a kindly sort of man, but immersed in his books, and caring for little beside. Father Warner is not pleasant; all the girls were very much afraid of him."

"And the chaplain of the Lady?"

"He is forty or more, I should suppose: tall and slender, eyes and hair dark; a very pleasant man to speak with."

"I am afraid so!" was Abraham's internal comment.--"And his name, daughter?"

"Father Bruno."

"_What_?" Abraham had risen, with outspread hands, as though he would fain push away some unwelcome and horrible thing.

Belasez repeated the name.

"Bruno!--de Malpas?"

"I never heard of any name but Bruno."

"Has he talked with thee?" Abraham's whole manner showed agitation.

"Much."

"Upon what subjects?"