"Nay, dear my Lady," answered Maude, "it were not enough. So dear loveth our good and gentle Lord, that He will not have so much as one of His children to feel any the least unsurety touching His mercy. Wherefore He were not aseeth [contented] to say it only unto the Pharisee; but on her face, bowed down as she knelt behind Him, He looked, and bade her to be of good cheer, for that she was forgiven. O Lady mine! 'tis great and blessed matter when a man hath God to his friend!" "Thy words sound well," said the low voice from the bed. "Very well, like the sound of sweet waters far away." "Far away, dear my Lady?" "Ay, far away, Maude,--without [outside] my life and me." "Sweet Lady, if ye will but lift the portcullis, our Lord is ready and willing to come within. And whereinsoever He entereth, He bringeth withal rest and peace." "Rest! Peace!--Ay so. I guess there be such like gear some whither-- for some folks." "They dwell whereso Christ dwelleth, Lady mine." "In Paradise, then! I told thee it were far hence." "Is Paradise far hence, Lady? I once heard say Father Ademar that it were not over three hours' journey at the most; for the thief on the cross went there in one day, and it were high noon ere he set out." Maude stopped sooner than she intended, suddenly checked by a moan of pain from Custance. The mere mention of Ademar's name seemed to evoke her overwhelming distress, as if it brought back the memory of all the miserable events over which she had been brooding for three days past. She rocked herself from side to side, as though her suffering were almost unendurable. "If he could come back! O Maude, Maude!--if only he could come back!" "Sweet Lady, an' he were hither, methinks Father Ademar--" "No, no--not Father Ademar. Oh, if I could rend the grave open!--if I could tear asunder the blue veil of Heaven! I set no store by it all then; but now! He would forgive me: he would not scorn me! He would not count me too vile for his mercy. O my Lord, mine own dear Lord! you would never have served me thus!" And down rained the blessed tears, and relieved the dry, parched soil of the agonised heart. She lay quieter after that torrent of pain and passion. The terrible spell of dark silence was broken; and Maude knew at last, that through this bitterest trial she had ever yet experienced, the wandering heart was coming home--at least to Le Despenser. Was it needful that she should pass through yet deeper waters, before she would come home to God? ------------------------------------------------------------------------