The young man had ministered to his fellow-beings long enough to have become a good interpreter of hearts. He discerned the thoughts of the one before him, and offered prompt remedies, words wisely spoken:
“Our faith makes us all hope to see our guest happy ere long.”
Then she gave way to a flood of tears. The tears moved the man to exercise His professional function, and forgetting all else he spoke as a comforter to a sorrowing woman. She listened, but, except for her sobs, was silent until he questioned: “Shall I stay to guide back to the ‘Refuge,’ or return to send help?”
She answered by turning toward him a face pale and blank, lighted alone by eyes all appealing. He interpreted the look and continued: “I’ll tarry to aid. Shall we now seek the ‘Refuge?’”
Then she exclaimed, “Alas, there seems no refuge for me!”
“The troubles of Miriamne de Griffin enlist all hearts at this place, I assure you.”
“And this, your kindness, with your happiness ever before me, but makes to myself my own desolation more manifest! Ah, I’m but a hulk in a dark tide!”
“Lady, say not so, I beseech you. Look, there!” Languidly, mechanically, she turned her eyes in the direction the speaker pointed; then suddenly drew back from sight of a white apparition, standing out boldly from a background of dark shrubbery. Her nerves all unstrung were for the moment victimized by superstitious dreads.
“Only, calm, pure marble; a fear-slayer; not fear-invoker! Look at its pedestal!” assuringly spoke the chaplain. The maiden did as bidden and slowly read, repeating each word aloud: “Sancta-Maria-Consolatrix-Afflictorum.”