heart like wine. I cannot bear that trouble should crush them out of her in
the very flower of her youth; I cannot bear that tears should wear channels
down her soft cheeks and dim the brightness of her eyes. Sooner would I give
what remains to me of life! Sister, do I sin? Do I seem to murmur against His
will? But I have grown used to suffering, while she--what has she known but
love? Oh, have I not suffered enough for both? Could she not have been
spared?" Her voice mounted to a cry of exceeding bitterness.

Sister Sexberga rose, stretching toward her a tremulous pitying hand. The
light that shines on the mountain-top was very bright on her wrinkled old
face. She said softly, "It is not for me to say that you sin in your grief,
most dear sister. But I give you this thought for your comfort: if you, who
are tied to her by no bond of the flesh can feel for her so great and brooding
an affection, what then must be the love of Him who fashioned her fair young
body and lit the light of her glad spirit? Of a surety its tender yearning can
be no less than yours. It may be that with tears He would wash the dust of the
world from her eyes, that her sight may be clear for a vision of holier
things. But believe that, even as you would shelter her, so will He not
forsake her in her helplessness. Believe, and be eased of your fear." A
rustling of her robe across the grass, and she was gone.

The chant ceased, the wavering treble dying away in a note of haunting
sweetness. The man moaned and clutched at his wound; and the bowed figure by
his side roused herself to tend him. Then a grating of rusty hinges made her
turn her head.

Under the crumbling arch, relieved against the green of the lane beyond, stood
the figure of a slender boy wrapped in a mantle of scarlet that bore a
strangely familiar look. His hair fell upon his shoulders in soft wavy locks
of raven blackness; but his face was turned away as his hands fumbled at the