Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were fixed with horror and remorse.
"Something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so—oh God, what have I done?—What shall I do?"
Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him, across the priest.
"Why, fall at thy wife's knees, and ask her to forgive thee."
Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head on Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken husband.
Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even in this world of wrangles and jars.
But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted savory odors, and by-and-by he said, drily, "I wonder whether that fat pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"
"Oh, inhospitable wretch that I am," said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of my own heart."
"And forgot the stomach of your unspiritual father. But, madam, you are pale, you tremble."
"'Tis nothing, sir: I shall soon be better. Sit you down and sup: I will return anon."