He had daily practised his art upon the Abbot.

He had even, though more rarely, succeeded with his father.

But now in the day of his necessity the power and wit had departed from him.
To the lord of the Castle of Machecoul Laurence simply could not lie.
Ringed as he was by evil, his spirit became strong for good, and he testified like one in the place of final judgment, when the earthly lendings of word and phrase and covering excuse must all be cast aside and the soul stand forth naked and nakedly answer that which is required.
"I am a Scot," said Laurence, briefly, and without explanation.
"Come with me into my chamber," said the marshal, and turned to precede him thither.
And without word of complaint or backward glance, the lad followed the great lord to the chamber, into which so many had gone before him of the young and beautiful of the earth, and whence so few had come out alive.
As he passed the threshold, Laurence put into his mouth the elastic pellet which had been given him by Blaise Renouf, the choir-master's son.
The marshal threw himself upon a chair, reclining with a wearied air upon the hands which were clasped behind his head.

In the action of throwing himself back one could see that Gilles de Retz was a young and not an old man, though ordinarily his vitality had been worn to the quick, and both in appearance and movement he was already prematurely aged.
"What is your name ?" The question came with military directness from the lips of the marshal of France.
"Laurence MacKim," said the lad, with equal directness.
"For what purpose did you come to the Castle of Machecoul ?" "I came," said Laurence, coolly, "to take service with you, my lord.
And because I was tired of monk rule, and getting only the husks of life, tired too of sitting dumb and watching others eat the kernel." "Ha!" cried Gilles de Retz, "I am with you there.

There is, after all, some harmony between our immortal parts.