“She did not return?” she asked. “Then”—
“She is dead,” I whispered.
After all, I believed it was true; that she could not have survived the wreck of all things which my abduction must have meant to her. The gentlewoman gave a gasp of pity and self-rebuke, and enfolded me in her arms.
“Forgive me!” she cried. “O, I was cruel! The poor lost lamb! So white, so helpless, so delivered to the wolves! But”—she bethought herself—“where was this?— And your unhappy father?”
“He had taken me to Brighthelmston,” I stammered; “he was not of our religion—of any. He made me dance before the pretty prince, and would have given me to him, but that the sweep whom he fought stole me out of revenge first.”
The priest and the lady exchanged looks.
“Am I justified?” she asked. “The peril, the iniquity! O, surely, Father—surely!”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Write to the Magdalens first,” said he, “and verify it.”
She thought a little, then addressed me again.