Dame Bridget, or “Thorn-in-the-Thumb,” made a devout beginning. She was a big woman with a high colour, and a mouth that was generally noisy, a woman of coarse texture, and of gross outlines that showed Nature as a craftswoman at her worst. Bridget had picked up some Latin words, and she began with these, as though such a prelude would impress Denise with their seriousness in coming. “Sister,” she said with a snuffle, when she had come to the end of her Latinity. “Here are three poor women in need of a blessing. We pray you to come out to us, Holy Sister, and to touch us with your hands.” Denise had no thought of treachery that morning, and she opened her door, and stood there on the threshold. The three women were kneeling humbly enough in the wet grass, their hoods drawn forward, their hands together as in prayer. Bridget showed a thumb red and swollen about the pulp. “There was a thorn twig in a faggot, Sister,” she said. “I laid my hand to the sticks, and the thorn went into my thumb. It has kept me awake o’ nights with the pain of it.” Then Sterility had a hearing, and while Denise bent over her, for the woman chose to whisper, Thorn-in-the-Thumb nudged Warts with her elbow, and stared Denise over from head to foot. Lastly, Warts displayed her imperfections, looking most meekly into Denise’s shadowy eyes. And when Denise had touched them all and given them her blessing, the three women departed, walking very circumspectly till they gained the road. Then Thorn-in-the-Thumb flung her arms about the necks of her neighbours, crumpled them to her, and laughed gross laughter that was not pleasant to hear. And they went up the hill together, gaggling like geese, blatantly exultant over the thing that they had discovered. Very soon hardly a man or woman in the five boroughs of Battle had not heard what Bridget and her neighbours had to tell. Rumours had been rife of late, but this last cup was spiced with the palatable truth. The women spoke more loudly than the men, were more strenuous and vindictive, more self-righteous, more eager to have the hypocrite proclaimed. Mightily sore were some of the worthy folk who had gone on their knees for nothing before Denise’s cell. They were quick to cry out that they had been cheated, more especially those who had left an offering to bribe the Blessed Ones in Heaven. The insolence of this jade, setting herself up as a virgin and a saint! “Out with her,” was the common cry. As for Dom Silvius he was little better than a fool.