opened with a clear shining of light which had no color, towards the
west,--for the sun had long gone down, and it was night. The two
travellers perceived a woman who came out of a house all lit with lamps
and firelight, and took the lonely path towards the sea. And the little
Pilgrim knew her, as she had known the father and mother in the darkened
house, and would have joined her with a cry of pleasure; but she
remembered that the friend could not see her or hear her, being wrapped
still in the mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of thoughts
and cares. The Sage made her a sign to follow, and these two tender
companions accompanied her who saw them not, walking darkling by the
silent way. The heart of the woman was heavy in her breast. It was so
sore by reason of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds of the past, and
all the fears that beset her life to come, that she walked, not weeping
because of being beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her thoughts
being in her little way like those of His upon whose brow there once
stood drops as it were of blood; and out of her heart there came a
moaning which was without words. If words had been possible, they would
have been as His also, who said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do.' For those who had wounded her were those whom in all the
world she loved most dear; and the quivering of anguish was in her as she
walked, seeking the darkness and the silence, and to hide herself, if
that might be, from her own thoughts. She went along the lonely path with
the stinging of her wounds so keen and sharp that all her body and soul
were as one pain. Greater grief hath no man than this, to be slain and
tortured by those whom he loves. When her soul could speak, this was what
it said 'Father, forgive them! Father, save them!' She had no strength
for more.

This the heavenly pilgrims saw,--for they stood by her as in their own
country, where every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But as they