When Sylvestre Ker awoke he wept, for the thought of his condemnation returned; but the remembrance of Pol and Matheline dried the tears in his burning eyes.
"It was for those two," said he, "that I forgot God and my mother. I still feel my friend's heel upon my forehead, and even to the bottom of my heart the shock of the stones thrown at me by my betrothed!"
"Dearest," murmured Josserande, "dearer to me than ever, I know nothing; tell me all."
Sylvestre Ker obeyed, and when he had finished, Josserande kissed him, took up her staff, and proceeded towards the convent of Ruiz to ask, according to her custom, aid and counsel from Gildas the Wise. On the way, men, women, and children looked curiously at her, for throughout the country it was already known that she was the mother of a wolf. Even behind the hedge which enclosed the abbey orchard Matheline and Pol were hidden to see her pass; and she heard Pol say,--
"Will you come to-night to see the wolf run around?"
"Without fail," replied Matheline; and the sting of her laughter pierced Josserande like a poisonous thorn.
The grand abbot received her, surrounded by great books and dusty manuscripts. When she wished to explain her son's case, he stopped her, and said,--
"Widow of Martin Ker, poor, good woman, since the beginning of the world, Satan, the demon of gold and pride, has worked many such wickednesses. Do you remember the deceased brother, Thaël, who is a saint for having resisted the desire of making gold,--he who had the power to do it?"
"Yes," answered Josserande; "and would to heaven my Sylvestre had imitated him!"
"Very well," replied Gildas the Wise. "Instead of sleeping, I passed the rest of the night with St. Thaël, seeking a means to save your son, Sylvestre Ker."
The grand abbot neither answered yes nor no, but he began to turn over a very thick manuscript filled with pictures; and, while turning the leaves, he said,--
"Life springs from death, according to the divine word; death seizes the living, according to the pagan law of Rome; and it is nearly the same thing in the order of miserable temporal ambition, whose inheritance is a strength, a life, shot forth from a coffin. This is a book of the defunct Thaël's, which treats of the question of maladies caused by the breath of gold,--a deadly poison.... Woman, would you have the courage to strike your wolf a blow on his head powerful enough to break the skull?"