The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Keep your eye upon the lad. The sword, Jacques. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. Michelle laughed, saying that she could only guess. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin.
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