“I am Constance of Brittany,” said the elder.
“And I am Marie of France,” added the other in a low voice.
The Abbess bowed in great surprise and admitted the pair. “What seek you, gracious Princesses?” said she.
“We have vowed to tarry here in prayer until the Holy Mother of God answers our petition,” was the reply.
“And supposing the Holy One refuses?”
“Then we shall pray for a poor soul until our latest breath.”
“It is your right to command,” said the Abbess, conducting them to the interior of the cloister.
In that very hour an aged Jew came to the south gate of the city with a ragbag on his shoulder and a staff in his hand. He exhibited his passports to the gate-keepers, and although they gave him permission to leave Paris and go to Rouen on business, he was stopped and insulted upon every sort of pretext. He bore the raillery of the rough soldiers patiently and mutely, only protesting now and then, “My papers permit me to enter the city and seek lodgings with my friends.”
“But why are you in such a hurry, Jew?” said the captain. “Perhaps you have business with the King of England, who is coming to-night?”
The Jew shot a swift glance at the speaker and meekly replied, “A poor craftsman can have nothing to do with so fine a gentleman.”