CHAPTER VII.
IPHIGENIA "Don't chop off a hen's head with a battle-axe." Heywood, still with a malicious, friendly quirk at the corners of his mouth, held in his fretful pony.

Rudolph stood bending a whip viciously.

They two had fetched a compass about the town, and now in the twilight were parting before the nunnery gate.

"A tiff's the last thing I'd want with you.

The lady, in confidence, is not worth--" "I do not wish," declared Rudolph, trembling,--"I do not wish you to say those things, so!" "Right!" laughed the other, and his pony wheeled at the word.