“Well, my darling, sit down, at least,” he said.

She obeyed him mechanically—­sat, and still stared at him.  In the silence once more that soft roar rose and died from the invisible world of tumult outside the windows.  Within here all was quiet.  He knew perfectly that two things strove within her, her loyalty to her faith and her hatred of those crimes in the name of justice.  As he looked on her he saw that these two were at death grips, that hatred was prevailing, and that she herself was little more than a passive battlefield.  Then, as with a long-drawn howl of a wolf, there surged and sank the voices of the mob a mile away, the tension broke....  She threw herself forward towards him, he caught her by the wrists, and so she rested, clasped in his arms, her face and bosom on his knees, and her whole body torn by emotion.

For a full minute neither spoke.  Oliver understood well enough, yet at present he had no words.  He only drew her a little closer to himself, kissed her hair two or three times, and settled himself to hold her.  He began to rehearse what he must say presently.

Then she raised her flushed face for an instant, looked at him passionately, dropped her head again and began to sob out broken words.

He could only catch a sentence here and there, yet he knew what she was saying....

It was the ruin of all her hopes, she sobbed, the end of her religion.  Let her die, die and have done with it!  It was all gone, gone, swept away in this murderous passion of the people of her faith ... they were no better than Christians, after all, as fierce as the men on whom they avenged themselves, as dark as though the Saviour, Julian, had never come; it was all lost ...  War and Passion and Murder had returned to the body from which she had thought them gone forever....  The burning churches, the hunted Catholics, the raging of the streets on which she had looked that day, the bodies of the child and the priest carried on poles, the burning churches and convents. ...  All streamed out, incoherent, broken by sobs, details of horror, lamentations, reproaches, interpreted by the writhing of her head and hands upon his knees.  The collapse was complete.

He put his hands again beneath her arms and raised her.  He was worn out by his work, yet he knew he must quiet her.  This was more serious than any previous crisis.  Yet he knew her power of recovery.

“Sit down, my darling,” he said.  “There ... give me your hands.  Now listen to me.”

* * * * *

He made really an admirable defence, for it was what he had been repeating to himself all day.  Men were not yet perfect, he said; there ran in their veins the blood of men who for twenty centuries had been Christians....  There must be no despair; faith in man was of the very essence of religion, faith in man’s best self, in what he would become, not in what at present he actually was.  They were at the beginning of the new religion, not in its maturity; there must be sourness in the young fruit. ...  Consider, too, the provocation!  Remember the appalling crime that these Catholics had contemplated; they had set themselves to strike the new Faith in its very heart....