"Dying!" shrieked the unhappy mother. "Dying, Father Bruno! You said _dying_!"

"Too true, my Lady."

"But what can I do? How am I to stop it?"

"Ah!" said Bruno, softly, as if to himself. "There is a 'Talitha c.u.mi'

from the other side too. The Healer is on that side now. Lady, He has called her. In her face, her voice, her very smile, it is only too plain that she has heard His voice. And there is no possibility of disobeying it, whether it call the living to death, or the dead to life."

"But how am I to help it?" repeated the poor Countess.

"You cannot help it. Suffer her to rise and go to Him. Let us only do our utmost to make sure that it is to Him she is going."

"Oh, if it be so, would it be possible to have her spared the pains of Purgatory? Father, I would think it indeed a light matter to give every penny and every jewel that I have!"

"Do so, if it will comfort you. But for her, leave her in His hands without whom not a sparrow falleth. Lady, He loves her better than you."

"Better? It is not possible! I would die for her!"

"He has died for her," answered Bruno, softly. "And He is the Amen, the Living One for ever: and He hath the keys of Hades and of death. She cannot die, Lady, until He bids it who counts every hair upon the head of every child of His."

"But where will she be?--what will she be?" moaned the poor mother.

"If she be His, she will be where He is, and like Him."

"But He does not need her, and I do!"

"Nay, if He did not, He would not take her. He loves her too well, Lady, to deal with this weak and weary lamb as He deals with the strong sheep of His flock. He leads them for forty years, it may be, through the wilderness: He teaches them by pain, sorrow, loneliness, unrest.

But she is too weak for such discipline, and she is to be folded early.

It is far better."

"For her,--well, perhaps--if she can be got past Purgatory. But for me!"

"For each of you, what she needs, Lady."

"O Father Bruno, she is mine only one!"

"Lady, can you not trust her in His hands who gave His Only One for her salvation?"

One evening about this time, Levina came up with the news that Abraham of Norwich wished to see the Damoiselle de Malpas. Her words were civil enough, but her tone never was when she spoke to Beatrice; and on this occasion she put an emphasis on the name, which was manifestly not intended to be flattering. Beatrice, however, took no notice of it.

Indeed, she was too glad to see Abraham to feel an inclination to quarrel with the person who announced his arrival in any terms whatever.

She threw aside her work in haste, and ran down into the hall.

"My Belasez, light of mine eyes!" said the old man fervently, as he folded her in his arms and blessed her. "Ah, there is not much light for the old pedlar's eyes now!"

"Dost thou miss me, my father?"

"Miss thee! Ah, my darling, how little thou knowest. The sun has gone down, and the heavens are covered with clouds."

"Was my mother very angry after I went away?"

It was not natural to speak of Licorice by any other name.

"Don't mention it, Belasez! She beat me with the broom, until Delecresse interfered and pulled her off. Then she spat at me, and cursed me in the name of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the twelve tribes of Israel. She threw dirt at my beard, child."

The last expression, as Beatrice well knew, was an Oriental metaphor.

"Is she satisfied now?"

"Satisfied! What dost thou mean by satisfied? She gives me all the sitten [Note 1] porridge. That is not very satisfying, for one can't eat much of it. I break my fast with Moss, when I can."

Beatrice could not help laughing.

"My poor father! I wish I could just fly in every morning, to make the porridge for thee."

"Blessed be the memory of the Twelve Patriarchs! Child, thou wouldst scarcely escape with whole bones. If Licorice hated Christians before, she hates them tenfold now.--Dost thou think, Belasez, that the Lady lacks anything to-day? I have one of the sweetest pieces of pale blue Cyprus that ever was woven, and some exquisite gold Damascene stuffs as well."

"I am sure, Father, she will like to look at them, and I have little doubt she will buy."

"How are matters going with thee, child? Has thy father got leave to abandon his vows?"

"He hopes to receive it in a few days."

"Well, well! Matters were better managed in Israel. Our vows were always terminable. And Nazarites did not shut themselves up as if other men were not to be touched, like unclean beasts. We always washed ourselves, too. There is an old monk at Norwich, that scents the street whenever he goes up it: and not with otto of roses. I turn up a side lane when I see him coming. Even the Saracens are better than that. I never knew any but Christians who thought soap and water came from Satan." [Note 2.]

"Well, we all wash ourselves here," said Beatrice, laughing, "unless it be Father Warner; I will not answer for him."

"This world is a queer place, my Belasez, full of crooked lanes and crookeder men and women. Men are bad enough, I believe: but women!--"

Beatrice could guess of what woman Abraham was especially thinking.

"Is Cress come with thee, my father?"

"No--not _here_," answered the old Jew, emphatically. "And he never can."

"Why?"

"Belasez, I have a sad tale to tell thee."

"O my father! Is there anything wrong with Cress?"

It was impossible to recognise Delecresse as uncle instead of brother.

"Ay, child, wrong enough!" said Abraham sadly.

"Is he so ill, my father?"

"Ah, my Belasez, there is a leprosy of the soul, worse than that of the body. And there is no priest left in Israel who can purge that! Child, hast thou never wondered how Sir Piers de Rievaulx came to know of the damsel's marriage--she that is the Lady's daughter?"