Richard grew stern.  ‘So asked in His agony the Son of high God,’ he reproved her.  ’If you dare ask Him that in His own words your sorrow must be deep.’

She said, ‘It is most deep.’

‘But His,’ said Richard, ‘was bitter shame.’  She said, ’And mine is bitter.’

‘But His was undeserved.’  He spoke scorn; so then she lifted up her head, and with eyes most piteous searched his face.  ‘But mine, Richard,’ she said, ‘but mine is deserved.’

‘The hearing is pertinent,’ said Richard.  ’As a son and man affianced it touches me pretty close.’

Out of the hot and desperate struggle for breath, sounds came from her, but no words.  But she ran forward blindly, and kneeling, caught him by the knees; he could not but find pity in his heart for the witless poor wretch, who seemed to be fighting, not with regret nor for need of his pity, but with some maggot in the brain which drove her deeper into the fiery centre of the storm.  Richard did what he could.  A religious man himself, he pointed her to the Christ on the wall; but she waved it out of sight, shook her wild hair back, and clung to him still, asking some unguessed mercy with her eyes and sobbing breath.  ’God help this tormented soul, for I cannot,’ he prayed; and said aloud, ’I will call your women; let me go.’  So he tried to undo her hands, but she clenched her teeth together and held on with frenzy, whining, grunting, like some pounded animal.  Dumbly they strove together for a little panting space of time.

‘Ah, but you shall let me go,’ he said then, much distressed, and forcibly unknotted her mad hands.  She fell back upon her heels, and looked up at him.  Such hopeless, grinning misery he had never seen on a face before.  He was certain now that she was out of her wits.

Yet once again she brushed her hands over her face, as he had seen her do before, like one who sweeps gossamers away on autumn mornings; and though she was all in a shiver and shake with the fever she had, she found her voice at last.  ’Ah, thanks!  Ah, my thanks, O Christ my Saviour!’ she sighed.  ’O sweet Saviour Christ, now I will tell him all the truth.’

If he had listened to her then it had been well for him.  But he did not.  The struggle had fretted him likewise; if she was mad he was maddened.  He got angry where he should have been most patient.  ’The truth, by heaven!’ he snapped.  ‘Ah, if I have not had enough of this truth!’ And so he left her shuddering.  As he went down the long corridor he heard shriek after shriek, and then the scurrying of many feet.  Turning, he saw carried lights, women running.  The sounds were muffled, they had her safe.  Richard went to his house over the river, and slept for ten hours.

CHAPTER VII

OF THE CRACKLING OF THORNS UNDER POTS