Ambrose of Menthon and his meek and humble follower rested at Chalons, on their way to Paris.

For many weeks they had begged from door to door, sleeping in some hermit’s cell or by the roadside when the severity of the bitter nights permitted, occasionally finding shelter in a wayside convent.

So patient, so courageous before hardship, so truly sad and remorseful, so grateful for the distant chance of ultimate pardon was Dirk, that the saint grew to love the penitent vagabond.

No one eager to look for it could have found any fault with his behaviour; he was gentle as a girl, obedient as a servant, rigid in his prayers (and he had a strangely complete knowledge of the offices and penances of the Church), silent and sorrowful often, taking no pleasure in anything save the saint’s talk of Paradise and holy things.

Particularly he loved to hear of the dead youth Blaise, of his saintly life, of his desire to join the stern Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart, in Paris, of his fame as one beloved of God, of the convent’s wish to receive him, of his great learning, of his beautiful death in the snowy evening.

To all this Dirk listened with still attention, and from Saint Ambrose’s rapt and loving recital he gathered little earthly details of the subject of their speech.

Such as that he was from Flanders, of a noble family, that his immediate relatives were dead, that his years were no more than twenty, and that he was dark and pale.

For himself Dirk had little to say; he described simply his shame and remorse after he had stolen the holy gold, his gradual sickening of his companions, the long torture of his awakening soul, his attempts to find the saint, and how, finally, after he had resolved to flee his evil life and enter a convent, he had run out of Frankfort, found a boat waiting — and so drifted to Saint Ambrose’s feet.

The saint, rejoicing in his penitence, suggested that he should enter the convent whither they journeyed with the tidings of the holy youth’s death, and Dirk consented with humble gratitude. And so they passed through Chalons, and rested in a deserted hut overlooking the waters of the Maine.

Having finished their scanty meal they were seated together under the rough shelter; the luxury of a fire was denied their austerity; a cold wind blew in and out of the ill-built doors, and a colourless light filled the mean bare place. Dirk sat on a broken stool, reading aloud the writings of Saint Jerome.

He wore a coarse brown robe, very different from his usual attire, fastened round the waist with a rope into which was twisted a wooden rosary; his feet were encased in rude leather boots, his hands reddened with the cold, his face hollow and of a bluish pallor in which his eyes shone feverishly large and dark.

His smooth hair hung on to his shoulders; he stooped, in contrast with his usual erect carriage. Pausing on his low and gentle reading he looked across at the saint.

Ambrose of Menthon sat on a rough-hewn bench against the rougher wall; weariness, exposure, and sheer weakness of body had done their work at last; Dirk knew that for three nights he had not slept...he was asleep now or had swooned; his fair head fell forward on his breast, his hands hung by his side.

As Dunk became assured that his companion was unconscious, he slowly rose and set down the holy volume. He was himself half starved, cold to the heart and shuddering; he looked round the plaster walls and the meek expression of his face changed to one of scorn, derision and wicked disdain; he darted a bitter glance at the wan man, and crept towards the door.

Opening it softly, he gazed out; the scene was fair and lonely — the distant tourelles of Chalons rose clear and pointed against the winter clouds; near by the grey river flowed between its high banks, where the bare willows grew and the snow-wreaths still lay.

Dunk took shivering steps into the open and turned towards the Maine; the keen wind penetrated his poor garments and lifted the heavy hair from his thin cheeks; he beat his breast, chafed his hands and walked rapidly.

Reaching the bank he looked up and down the river; there was no one in sight, neither boat nor animal nor house to break the monotony of land, sky and water, only those distant towers of the town.

Dirk walked among the twisted willows, then came to a pause.

A little ahead of him were a black man and a black dog, both seated on the bank and gazing towards Chálons.

The youth came a little nearer.

“Good even,” he said. “It is very cold.”

The Blackamoor looked round.

“Are you pleased with the way you travel?” he asked, nodding his head. “And your companion?”

Dunk’s face lowered.

“How much longer am I to endure it?”

“You must have patience,” said the black man, “and endurance.”

“I have both,” answered Dirk. “Look at my hands — they are no longer soft, but red and hard; my feet are galled and wounded in rough boots — I must walk till I am sick, then pray instead of sleeping; I see no fire, and scarcely do I touch food.”

The hell-hound stirred and whined among the osiers, the jewels in the Blackamoor’s collar flashed richly, though there was no light to strike them.

“You will be rewarded,” he said, “and revenged too — o — ho — o! it is very cold, as you say, very cold.”

“What must I do?” asked Dirk.

The black man rubbed his hands together.

“You know — you know.”

Dirk’s pinched wan face grew intent, and eager.

“Am I to use...this?” He touched the breast of his rough habit.

“Yea.”

“Then shall I be left defenceless.” Dirk’s voice shook a little. “If anything should happen — I would not, I could not — oh, Sathanas! — I could not be revealed!”

The Blackamoor rose from among the willows.

“Do you trust yourself and me?” he asked.

Dirk put his thin hand over his eyes.

“Yea, master.”

“Then you know what to do. You will not see me for many years — when you have triumphed I shall come.”

He turned swiftly and ran down the bank, the hound at his heels; one after another they leaped into the waters of the Maine and disappeared with an inner sound.

Dunk straightened himself and set his lips. He reentered the hut to find Ambrose of Menthon still against the wall, now indeed wearily asleep; Dirk came softly forward; slowly and cautiously he put his hand into his bosom and drew out a small green-coloured phial.

With his eyes keenly o............