He sat himself down by the altar of Saint Remy, and she knelt beside him.
'Well, my daughter ?' says Milo.
'I think it is well,' she took him up.
The Abbot Milo, a red-faced, watery-eyed old man, rheumy and weathered well, then opened his mouth and spake such wisdom as he knew.

He held up his forefinger like a claw, and used it as if describing signs and wonders in the air.
'Hearken, Madame Jehane,' he said.

'I say that you have done well, and will maintain it.

That great prince, whom I love like my own son, is not for you, nor for another.

No, no.