Bruno, like many another, was better than his system; and at that time the Church herself had not reached those depths of legalised iniquity wherein she afterwards plunged. So that he had no hesitation in repeating, “Never.”
“Then hear the truth, Bruno de Malpas; and if it well-nigh break an old man’s heart to tell it, it is better that I should suffer and die for God’s sake than that I should live for mine. On one point, Licorice deceived thee to the last. And until now, I, even I, have aided her in duping thee. Yet it is written, ‘He that confesseth and forsaketh his sin shall find mercy.’ May it not be too late for me!”
“Assuredly not, my father. But what canst thou mean?”
“Bruno, thy child did not die the day after she came hither.”
“Father! Thou art not going to tell me—”
Bruno’s voice had in it a strange mixture of agony and hope.
“Son, thy Beatrice lives.”
Before either could speak further, Belasez had thrown herself on her knees, and flung her arms around Abraham.
“O Father, if it be so, speak quickly, and end his agony! For the sake of the righteous Lord, that loveth righteousness, do, do give Father Bruno back his child!”
Abraham disengaged himself from Belasez’s clinging arms with what seemed almost a shudder. He took up his long robe, and tore it from the skirt to the neck. Then, with a voice almost choked with emotion, he laid both hands, as if in blessing, on the head of the kneeling Belasez.