“Oh! how cruel you are. If I take my oath of it, will you believe me then?”
“Will you take it on the Bible?”
“Yes, yes, on the Bible—your Protestant Bible, if that will satisfy you!”
“It won’t,” answered Jane. “What do you care for a Protestant Bible? I must have your oath on the crucifix, before I believe it.”
“The crucifix! But I haven’t got a crucifix!”
“Where is the gold one you used to plot mischief over on your knees?” questioned Jane, sneeringly.
“The gold one? The gold crucifix? Oh! yes, that is in that box, with all the other jewels. It wasn’t safe here, you know!” answered the old woman, clutching her fingers more tightly around her treasure, “so you see I can’t swear on the crucifix; but I’ll do it on anything else you like!”
Jane had watched the sly movement of the old woman’s hand, with all the sharp suspicion natural to her character. Without a word of reply, she drew close to the bed, seized the old woman’s wrist, and drew forth the skeleton hand still clutched upon the crucifix.
“Miserable old liar, what is this?” she cried, shaking the poor hand till the crucifix fell from its clutch.
“I don’t know,” answered the old woman, cowering down in the bed. “It’s my religion. It’s my all in all. Don’t touch it.”