Her attention was instantly attracted by the three young men under the trees; she raised her hand for the procession to halt, and said in a very sure clear voice—
"Is one of these gentlemen the Prince of Orange?"
As she named the great heretic the nuns shuddered and murmured; the men, though they halted obediently, frowned. William came forward a pace from his brothers; his slight figure, partially armed in steel, sat motionless on his grey horse; he was bare-headed, and his hair blew across his forehead; every line of his dark tired face was clear in the unshaded sunlight.
"I am he, Madame," he answered, and he looked at her curiously.
The abbess returned his gaze steadily; there was in her look the same serene steadiness as had sounded in her voice.
She was very young, little more than a child, though the white framing her face, the demure nun's robe, gave her an air of gravity; her face was pale and delicate, the features irregular and attractive, the mouth sweet, the eyes large, dark, beautiful, and wistful.
There was wistfulness in her tone when she spoke again.
"I have heard so much of Monseigneur, even in our convent. I thank Monseigneur for his courtesy in allowing our passage."
When she spoke thus, gravely in her pretty French, she was exquisitely charming, like a child masking in an elder's gown, so little did she seem to suit her habit.
"We are but soldiers of fortune, Madame," returned the Prince; "it is not for you to thank me—this is your country."