"It concerns Madame, Simon," said Barbara. "She is dead and all the town declares that she had poison given to her in a cup of chicory-water. Is it not pitiful?"
Indeed the tidings came as a shock to me, for I remembered the winning grace and wit of the unhappy lady.
"But who has done it?" I cried.
"I don't know," said my lord. "It is set down to her husband; rightly or wrongly, who knows?"
A silence ensued for a few moments. The Vicar stooped and set his captive free to crawl away on the path.
"God has crushed one of them, Simon," said he. "Are you content?"
"I try not to believe it of her," said I.
In a grave mood we began to walk, and presently, as it chanced, Barbara and I distanced the slow steps of our elders and found ourselves at the Manor gates alone.
"I am very sorry for Madame," said she, sighing heavily. Yet presently, because by the mercy of Providence our own joy outweighs others' grief and thus we can pass through the world with unbroken hearts, she looked up at me with a smile, and passing her arm, through mine, drew herself close to me.
"Ay, be merry, to-night at least be merry, my sweet," said I. "For we have come through a forest of troubles and are here safe out on the other side."