"But true! Were I God, should I love the monk puling prayers in a den? Nay--that man should I choose who dared to follow the dictates of his own soul and strangle Fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are better than mumbled prayers!" The horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of sun-bronzed fern. His eyes were full of a restless glitter, as the eyes of a man, whose heart is troubled. He sprang from the saddle, and, leading his horse by the bridle, bent low before the twain. "Tidings, my lord!" "I listen!"-- The horseman looked for a moment in Francesco's face but, hardened as he was, he dared not abide the trial. There was such a stare of desperate calm in the dark eyes, that his courage failed and quailed from the truth. He hung his head and stood mute. "I listen--" "My lord--" "For God's sake, speak out!" "My lord--" "The truth!"-- "She lives--" A great silence fell within the hearts of the three, an ecstasy of silence, such as comes after the wail of a storm. The duke's lips were compressed, as if he feared to give expression to his feelings. Francesco's face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of his soul. He sat rigid on his horse, a stone image fronting Fate, grim-eyed and steadfast. All his life had been one long sacrifice, one long denial,--had it all been in vain? There were tears in the eyes of the man-at-arms. "What more?" The horseman leaned against his horse, his arm hooked over its neck. He pointed to the valley. "Yonder lies Narni. Beyond the Campanile of St. Juvenal is a sanctuary. You can see it yonder by the ford. Two holy women dwell therein. To them, my lord, I commend you!" "You know more!" The voice that spoke was terrible. "Spare me, my lord! The words are for women's lips, not for mine!" "So be it!" The three rode in silence, Francesco and the duke together, looking mutely into each other's face. Francesco's head was bowed to his breast. The reins lay loose on his horse's neck. A gray cell of roughly hewn stone showed amidst the green boughs beyond the water. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross hung from her neck and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode down to the rippling fords. Autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and Francesco's eyes beheld ruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had come from the cell, and now stood at the wicket-gate with her hands folded as if in prayer. The horseman took Francesco's bridle. The latter went on foot alone to speak with the anchoress. "My lord," she said, kneeling at his feet, "God save and comfort you!"-- The man's brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his left wrist. He looked over the woman's head into the woods, and breathed fast through clenched teeth. "Speak!" he said. "My lord, the woman lives!" "I can bear the truth!" The anchoress made the sign of the cross.