Guillem, finally unhanded, stood with folded arms and waited for death.
"It is the time of the Truce of God," said the seigneur softly, and, knowing that death would be a boon, sent him off unhurt.
The village, which had eaten full, slept early that night. Down the hill at nine o'clock came half a dozen men-at-arms on horseback and clattered through the streets. Word went about quickly. Great oaken doors were unbarred to the news:
"The child Clotilde is gone!" they cried through the streets. "Up and arm. The child Clotilde is gone."
Joan, deserted, sat alone in the great hall. For the seigneur was off, riding like a madman. Flying through the Market Square, he took the remains of the great fire at a leap. He had but one thought. The Jew had stolen the child; therefore, to find the Jew.
In the blackest of the night he found him, sitting by the road, bent over his staff. The eyes he raised to Charles were haggard and weary. Charles reined his horse back on his haunches, his men-at-arms behind him.
"What have you done with the child?"
"The child?"
"Out with it," cried Charles and flung himself from his horse. If the Jew were haggard, Charles was more so, hard bitten of terror, pallid to the lips.