"I will tell you nothing!" she replied with the same quiet firmness. "I have suffered. I suffer. Can you not suffer a little?" "Not blasphemy!" he said. "Not that! Tell me"--his voice, his face grew suppliant--"tell me only that it was not your voice, Anne. Tell me that it was not you who spoke! Tell me--but that." "I will tell you nothing!" she answered in the same tone. "You do not know----" "I know what it is you have in your mind!" she replied. "What it is you are thinking of me. That they will burn me in the Bourg du Four presently, as they burned the girl in Aix last year! As they burned the woman in Besancon not many months since; I have seen those who saw it. As they did to two women in Zurich--my mother was there! As they did to five hundred people in Geneva in my grandfather's time. It is that," she continued, a strange wild light in her eyes, "that you think they will do to me?" "God forbid!" he cried. "Nay, you may do it, too, if you choose," she answered, gravely regarding him. "But I do not think you will, for you are young, almost as young as I am, and, having done it, you would have many years to live and think. You would remember in those years that it was my mother who nursed your father, that it was you who came to us not we to you, that it was you who promised to aid us, not I who sought your aid! You would remember all these things of a morning when you awoke early: and this--that in the end you gave me up to the law and burned me." "God forbid!" he cried, and hid his face with his hands. The very quietness of her speech set an edge on horror. "God forbid!" "Ay, but men allow!" she answered drearily. "What if I was mad last night, and in my madness denied my Maker? I am sane to-day, but I must burn, if it be known! I must burn!" "Not by my mouth!" he cried, his brow damp with sweat. "Never, I swear it! If there be guilt, on my head be the guilt!" "You mean it? You mean that?" she said. "I do." "You will be silent?" "I will." Her lips parted, hope in her eyes shone--hope which showed how deep her despair had been. "And you will ask no questions?" she whispered. "I will ask no questions," he answered. He stifled a sigh. She drew a deep breath of relief, but she did not thank him. It was a thing for which no thanks could be given. She stood a while, sad and thoughtful, reflecting, it seemed, on what had passed; then she turned slowly and left him, crossed the open space, and entered the house, walking as one under a heavy burden.