"I fancy there may be some mistake about that," she added. "Of course, if it be in the holy Evangel! But it does not look quite of a piece with what Father Eudes reads. He read one day out of the writing of Monseigneur Saint John, that the blood of Jesus Christ, the blessed Lord, cleansed us from all sin: and another time—I think he said it was from the Evangel of Monseigneur Saint Matthew—he read that if a man did but ask the good God for salvation, it should be given him. Well! I asked, and He gave it me. Could He give me anything more?—or would He be likely to do it because I crept between a wall and a pillar?" "Why, Marguerite! Hast thou been listening to some of those wicked Lyonnese, that go preaching up and down? Dost thou not know that King Henry the father hath strictly forbidden any man to harbour one of that rabble?" "If it please my Damoiselle, I know nothing at all about them." "Why, it is a merchant of Lyons, named Pierre Waldo, and a lot more with him; they go up and down the country, preaching, and corrupting people from the pure Catholic faith. Hast thou listened to any such preachers, Margot?" "Ha, my Damoiselle, what know I? There was a Grey Friar at the Cross a few weeks since"—— "Oh, of course, the holy brethren of Saint Augustine are all right," said I. "Well, and last Sunday there was a man there, not exactly in a friar’s robe, but clad in sackcloth, as if he were in mourning; but he said none but very good words; they were just like the holy Evangel which Father Eudes reads. Very comforting words they were, too. He said the good Lord cared even for the sparrows, poor little things!—and very much more for us that trusted Him. I should like to hear him preach again." "Take care how thou dost!" said I, as I lay down in bed. "I am afraid, Margot, he is one of those Lyonnese serpents." "Well!" said Marguerite, as she tucked me up, "he had no sting, if he were." "No, the sting comes afterwards," said I. "And thou art but a poor villein, and ignorant, and quite unable to judge which is the true doctrine of holy Church, and which the wicked heresy that we must shut our ears against." "True, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite meekly. "But to say that the dear, blessed Lord cares for His poor servants—no, no!—that is no heresy!" "What is heresy?" said I. "And what is truth? Oh dear! If one might know, one’s own self!" "Ah! Pilatus asked that of the good God, when He stood before his judgment-seat. But he did not wait for the answer." "I wish he had done!" I answered. "Then we might have known it. But I suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the Church. So we should not have been much better off, because we do know that."