The first word that Aymery uttered was the name of Denise. Grimbald’s gaunt face remained thoughtful and placid. “Marpasse has found her,” he said. Aymery’s eyes asked more than Grimbald had the heart to tell. “She is safe,” was all that he would say, and acting as though there were no secret to be concealed, he went out to lay the fire on the hearth of the great room. Now Marpasse showed a most managing temper that May morning, and went about as though she had some grave work on hand. She herself took food in to Aymery, remained awhile with the door shut, and came out looking very set about the mouth. “I have told him a lie,” she said to Grimbald in a whisper, “his eyes asked for it. Go in and barber him, Father; a lover looks best with a clean chin.” Grimbald stared her in the face. “What have you told him?” “That we kept her away last night—for the sake of his wounds.” Grimbald’s lips came together for a “but.” Marpasse whispered on. “Get your razor and barber him, Father, and keep a clean edge on the lie. His eyes asked for it—I tell you, and I had not the heart to dash in the truth. I have the yoke on my own shoulders. Two lies sometimes make the truth.” She took Grimbald’s holly staff from the corner, and put on her hood. “I am going to fetch her,” she said; “no—I shall not scold. I have my plan. You may sit in the wood-shed out of sight, Father Grimbald, when I bring her back with me. If she sees you it will spoil the whole brew.” She turned on the threshold, and Grimbald saw suddenly that her eyes were wet. “Pray for them both, good Father,” she said to him, “my heart’s in the thing whatever rough words my mouth may say.” And Grimbald promised, and let her go. Yet when she had gone, and he was left alone in the great room with its black beams and smoking hearth, he saw through his prayers the brave, brown face of Marpasse. Yet Marpasse’s warm-hearted, yet coarser, nature could not vibrate to the subtler emotions that stirred in Denise. The two were like crude sunshine and moonlight; Marpasse healthy and vital in herself, yet lacking mystery and the glimmer of visionary things. Denise had often been more a spirit than a body, though the woman in her had been awakened, and the rich warm scent of the earth had ascended into her nostrils. Suffering had made her very human, and yet the soul in her still beat its wings, even though those wings should carry it away from the world’s desire nearer to the cold stars in a lonely sky. To Marpasse, Denise’s self-condemnation might seem a kind of futile and pitiable sanctity, but then Marpasse had more blood and bone in her, and less of that spirit that is crucified by its own purity.