Such exhortations spaced out Denise’s day, but her obstinacy and her bitterness of heart increased till she was nauseated by their piety, and filled with a gradual scorn. Twice Ursula visited her, to depart with the impatience of one whose words were wasted. Had Ursula suffered but once in life, it might have been so humanly simple for her to understand Denise. On the contrary, she found the victim less ductile than at first. Nearly three weeks had passed, and Ursula decided that the woman was well in body, but utterly diseased in heart. The Prioress began to bethink herself of sharper measures. Ursula believed that she had the devil in arms against her, and that the battle was for Denise’s soul. It was the night of May-day, the day of green boughs and garlands, and Denise had stood at her window and watched the sun go down, thinking of the May a year ago, and of her cell in the beech wood above Goldspur manor. The sun had set about an hour when Denise heard footsteps in the gallery, and saw the light of a lamp shining under the door. Ursula came in to the dusk of the room, shielding the lamp from the draught with the hollow of her hand. Her austere face was hard and white, and from one wrist hung a scourge set with burs of wire. Ursula had brought two of her strongest nuns with her. She set the lamp on a sconce, and was as abrupt and practical as any pedagogue. She bade the women close the door, and commanded Denise to strip and stand naked for a scourging. “Since words will not move the evil spirit in you,” she said, “we must try sharper measures.” Denise put her back against the wall. “Have a care how you touch me. I am not a dog to be whipped.” Ursula told the two nuns to take her by force, and to strip her of her clothes. But Denise was no longer the patient saint bowing her head before her destiny. She did what Marpasse would have done in such a storm, and taking the water-jar that stood by her, held Ursula and the nuns at bay. “Off!” she said, “I have some pride left in me. I have eaten your bread, but I will not bear your blows.” She was so tall and fierce, and untamable, that Ursula was the more convinced that Denise had a devil in her, and a devil that was not to be treated with disrespect. She called the nuns off, not relishing an unseemly scuffle, and having some reverence for a stone water-pot that was not to be softened by formulæ. It would be easier to catch Denise asleep, tie her wrists, and scourge her till she showed some penitence. “Woman,” she said, “the evil spirit is very strong in you. But God and my Saint helping me, I will subdue it in due season.”