Yet she would ask this measure of gratitude from him, that he write to her at times. He had never known refusal from her. ‘It was not religious fervour that drew me to the rigour of the conventual life, but thy command. How fruitlessly have I obeyed, if this gives me no title to thy gratitude!... When thou didst hasten to dedicate thyself to God I followed thee—nay, I went before thee. For, as if mindful of the looking back of Lot’s wife, thou didst devote me to God before thyself, by the sacred habit and vows of the monastery. Indeed it was in this sole circumstance that I had the sorrow and the shame of noting thy lack of confidence in me. God knows that I should not have hesitated a moment to go before or to follow thee to the very gates of hell, hadst thou commanded it. My soul was not my own but thine.’ Let him, therefore, make this small return of a letter to relieve her anxiety. ‘In earlier days, when thou didst seek worldly pleasure with me, thy letters were frequent enough; thy songs put the name of Heloise on every lip. Every street, every house in the city, echoed with my name. How juster would it be to lead me now to God than thou then didst to pleasure! Think then, I beseech thee, how much thou owest me. With this brief conclusion I terminate my long letter. Farewell, beloved.’ It is small wonder that the epistle placed Abélard in some perplexity. True, the devoted Heloise had spoken throughout in the past tense. But the ardour and the violence of her phrases betrayed a present depth of emotion which he must regard with some dismay. He had trusted that time and discipline would subdue the flame he had enkindled, and here it was indirectly revealed to live still in wondrous strength. He could not refuse to write, nor indeed would such a neglect profit anything; but he would send her a long letter of spiritual direction, and endeavour to divert her meditations.