THE MERCY OF LA MEFFRAYE It was a strange night that which the three Scots spent in the little house standing back from the street of Saint Philbert on the gloomy edges of the forest of Machecoul.

The hostess, indeed, was unweariedly kind and brought forth from her store many dainties for their delectation.

She talked with touching affection of her poor husband, afflicted with these strange fits of wolfish mania, in the paroxysms of which he was wont to tear himself and grovel in the dust like a beast.
This she told them over and over as she moved about setting before them provend from secret stores of her own, obviously unknown or perhaps forbidden to Caesar Martin.
Wild bee honey from the woods she placed before them and white wheaten bread, such as could not be got nearer than Paris, with wine of some rarer vintage than that out of the cripple's resinous pigskin.

These and much else La Meffraye pressed upon them till she had completely won over the Lord James, and even Malise, easy natured like most very strong men, was taken by the sympathetic conversation and gracious kindliness of the wife of poor afflicted Caesar Martin of Saint Philbert.

Only Sholto kept his suspicion edged and pointed, and resolved that he would not sleep that night, but watch till the dawn the things which might befall in the house on the forest's border.
Yet it was conspicuously to Sholto that La Meffraye directed most of her blandishments.
Her ruddy face, so bright that it seemed almost as if wholly covered with a birthmark, gleamed with absolute good nature as she looked at him.