“That is thy work. Thou didst open that grave in my pathway.”
The knight stood by her side and put forth his hand to clasp hers, but with a respectfulness that betokened the cavalier and one not quite certain of his welcome.
Then spake Father Adolphus:
“Remember Damascus, both of you. Come, Miriamne,” he continued, drawing the maiden aside, “I’ve a giant’s grave to show thee.”
The priest and the maiden moved to a turn in the road and passed behind the crumbled wall of a Roman palace.
“But, Father Adolphus, where now? What of the giant’s grave?”
“Be content, girl. I mean the grave of mad love grown to mad hate. It will be made and deep enough by thy parents, but they can best make it alone.”
And Miriamne fell upon her knees in silent, grateful prayer; a great burden that had borne her down for years seemed lifted from off her. The Miserere that had wailed through her life so long now changed to an Easter anthem.
Father Adolphus after a time recalled her by a single question: