He released me, to throw up his hands.
“The intolerance of these heretics!” he cried. “Stop! Don’t go. I withdraw my pronouncement. You shall name your own penance.”
I breathed quickly, standing before him.
“Father, that is soon done. I will go with you.”
“With me—with me?” he complained, stamping distracted. “Where to?”
“Anywhere from here,” I pleaded. “You can’t stop. The whole country’s up, and a second time, if they come, you’ll be caught.”
Snorting with agitation, he took off his spectacles to wipe them.
“It’s quite impossible,” he said. “I know of only one asylum beyond, and that”—
With a quick little snatch I ravished the glasses from his hand, and, running away with them, hid behind a chimney. For a minute or two he raved round, stumbling, and grabbing at the air, and finally tripped over his book and subsided, quite prostrate, upon the roof.
“Little sweep!” he panted, in a trembling voice. “My daughter—child of Magdalen—where are you?”