Folded my agony;
Till it seemed the ruined way to clear
Luminously.
“Words are all harsh to hear,
A look too much may see,
But your silence, beautiful, austere,
Was God to me.”
—Lilian Street.
That the Marquis’ missive ever reached Le Fougerais was no small wonder, for his messenger rode thither like a madman. It happened that the priest met him in the hall when he returned next morning, spattered from head to foot with the plentiful mud of the bad roads, haggard and unsmiling—he who always had a smile for his good friend.
“Where is Gilbert?” he enquired abruptly, without greeting of any kind. “In the library? Thank you.”