“She was fit for it in my eyes; and—may I say it, Belasez?—she was willing. But my hands were not clean enough. I felt that I could not repress a sensation of triumphing over Licorice, if I baptised her daughter. May the Lord forgive me if I erred, but I did not dare to do it.”
“O my son, my son!” broke from Abraham. “Thou hast been more righteous than I. Come home with me, and tell the story to Belasez thyself; and then—Adonai, Thou knowest. Help me to do Thy will!”
Bruno was evidently much astonished, and not a little perplexed at Abraham’s speech; but he followed him quietly. The storm was over now, and they gained home and the chamber over the porch without coming in contact with Delecresse. Abraham left Bruno there, while he desired Belasez to take off her wet things and rejoin them. Meantime he changed his coat, and carried up wine and cake to his guest. But when Belasez reappeared, Abraham drew the bolt, and closed the inner baize door which shut out all sound.
“Now, Bruno de Malpas,” he said, “tell thy story.”
And sitting down at the table, he laid his arms on it, and hid his face upon it.
“But, my father, dost thou wish her to hear it?”
“The Blessed One does, I believe. She has heard as yet but a garbled version. I wish what He wishes.”
“Amen!” ejaculated Bruno. And he turned to Belasez.
She, on her part, felt too much astonished for words. If any thing could surprise her more than that Bruno should be actually invited to tell the tapued story, it was the calm way in which Abraham received the intimation that she had all but professed Christianity. Mortal anger and scathing contempt she could have understood and expected; but this was utterly beyond her.
“Belasez,” said Bruno, “years ago, before thou wert born, thy father had another daughter, and her name was Anegay.”