Presently she spoke: "What did you say your crest is, Dick?" "My crest? Oh, something or other rampant on a something or other----"

"Dick!" "Dearest?" "Don't be flippant." "But I really forget. It's an ordinary crest; everybody in New York has
them. No family should be without 'em." "You are disagreeable, Dick. Send Josephine upstairs for my album." "Are you going to put that crest on the--the--whatever it is?" "I am; and my own crest, too." I thought of the Purple Emperor and wondered a little. "You didn't know I had one, did you?" she smiled. "What is it?" I replied evasively. "You shall see. Ring for Josephine." I rang, and, when 'Fine appeared, Lys gave her some orders in a low
voice, and Josephine trotted away, bobbing her white-coiffed head with
a "Bien, madame!" After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty volume,
from which the gold and blue had mostly disappeared. I took the book in my hands and examined the ancient emblazoned covers. "Lilies!" I exclaimed. "Fleur-de-lis," said my wife demurely. "Oh!" said I, astonished, and opened the book. "You have never before seen this book?" asked Lys, with a touch of
malice in her eyes. "You know I haven't. Hello! what's this? Oho! So there should be a
_de_ before Trevec? Lys de Trevec? Then why in the world did the Purple
Emperor----"

"Dick!" cried Lys. "All right," said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who
rode to Saladin's tent alone to seek for medicine for St. Louis? or
shall I read about--what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black and
white--about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva's
eyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It's all written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec
who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?" "He dropped the _de_, and the Trevecs since then have been
Republicans," said Lys--"all except me." "That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we Republicans should
agree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and I
raised my wine-glass and looked at Lys. "To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment
on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very
sweet. I drained the glass to the king. After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His Majesty
shall be amused." "His Majesty," repeated Lys softly. "Or hers," I laughed. "Who knows?" "Who knows?" murmured Lys, with a gentle sigh. "I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer," I announced. "Do
you, Lys?" "I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the were-wolf,
and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and--O dear me! I
know lots more." "You are very wise," said I. "I shall teach his Majesty English." "And I Breton," cried Lys jealously. "I shall bring playthings to the king," said I--"big green lizards from
the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits
from the forest of Kerselec----"

"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch of
aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king--my king." "Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finistère. I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume. "I am looking," said I, "for the crest." "The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped mark on
the forehead, on a field----"

I sat up and stared at my wife. "Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is there in that
book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then:
It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk whom men called the
Black Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies of
Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of
only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the
very midst of their army." "So that is how you come by the crest," I said quietly; but I thought
of the branded skull in the gravel pit, and wondered. "Yes," said Lys. "The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest's head off,
but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the forehead. The book
says it was a pious action, and the Sieur de Trevec got great merit by
it. But I think it was cruel, the branding," she sighed. "Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?" "Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas. He cast a
white shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles,
too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was the same as that of
the old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said
he was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black
Priest was bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need
not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say this
one was a holy man. They say he was so good he was not allowed to die,
but was caught up to heaven one day," added Lys, with believing eyes. I smiled. "But he disappeared," persisted Lys. "I'm afraid his journey was in another direction," I said jestingly,
and thoughtlessly told her the story of the morning. I had utterly
forgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished I
remembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw her
face whiten. "Lys," I urged tenderly, "that was only some clumsy clown's trick. You
said so yourself. You are not superstitious, my dear?" Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from her
bosom and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbol
of faith. III. About nine o'clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and sat
down at the long discoloured oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne
Bruyère, who in turn bobbed her white coiffe at me. "My clever Bannalec maid," said I, "what is good for a stirrup-cup at
the Groix Inn?" "Schist?" she inquired in Breton. "With a dash of red wine, then," I replied. She brought the delicious Quimperlé cider, and I poured a little
Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes. "What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has Jean Marie
been here?" "We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed. "Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?" "His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel--his heart, you mean!" "So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow." "It is all due to your kindness----" began the girl, but I raised my
hand and held up the glass. "It's due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne;" and I took a hearty
draught of the schist. "Now," said I, "tell me where I can find Le
Bihan and Max Fortin." "Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. I
believe they are examining the Red Admiral's effects." "To send them to Paris? Oh, I know. May I go up, Marianne?" "And God go with you," smiled the girl. When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little Max Fortin
opened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tiny
velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.