“And what is your view about the Holy Maid?” asked Ralph, suddenly delivering his point. More stopped in his walk, cocked his head a little on one side like a clever dog, and looked at his companion with twinkling eyes. “It is a delicate subject,” he said, and went on again. “That is what puzzles me,” said Ralph. “Will you not tell me your opinion, Mr. More?” There was again a silence, and they reached the further end of the gallery and turned again before Sir Thomas answered. “If you had not answered me so briskly at dinner, Mr. Torridon, do you know that I should have suspected you of coming to search me out. But such a good head, I think, cannot be allied with a bad heart, and I will tell you.” Ralph felt a prick of triumph but none of remorse. “I will tell you,” went on More, “and I am sure you will keep it private. I think the Holy Maid is a good woman who has a maggot.” Ralph’s spirits sank again. This was a very non-committing answer. “I do not think her a knave as some do, but I think, to refer to what we said just now, that she has a large and luminous eye, and no hand worth mentioning. She sees many visions, but few facts. That tale about the Host being borne by angels from Calais to my mind is nonsense. Almighty God does not work miracles without reason, and there is none for that. The blessed sacrament is the same at Dover as at Calais. And a woman who can dream that can dream anything, for I am sure she did not invent it. On other matters, therefore, she may be dreaming too, and that is why once more I tell you that to my mind you can leave her out of your thoughts with regard to your brother. She is neither prophetess nor pythoness.” This was very unsatisfactory, and Ralph strove to remedy it. “And in the matter of the King’s death, Mr. More?” he said. Again Sir Thomas stopped in his walk. “Do you know, Mr. Torridon, I think we may leave that alone,” he said a little abruptly. And Ralph sucked in his lip and bit it sharply at the consciousness of his own folly.