“It would be rest, if He would give me Richard,” she said. “There is but that one thing for me in all the world.”
Bruno perceived that this patient required not the plaster, as he had supposed, but the probe. Her heart was not merely sore; it was rebellious. She was hardening herself against God.
“No, my daughter; thou art not ready for rest. There can be no peace between the King and an unpardoned rebel. Thou art that, Margaret de Burgh. Lay down thine arms, and put thyself in the King’s mercy.”
“Father!” said the girl, in a voice which was a mixture of surprise and alarm.
“Child, He giveth not account of any of His matters. Unconditional submission is what He requires of His prisoners. Thou wouldst fain dictate terms to thy Sovereign: it cannot be. Thou must come into His terms, if there is to be any peace between Him and thee. Yet even for thee there is a message of love. He is grieved at the hardness of thine heart. Listen to His voice,—‘It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.’ It is for thy sake that He would have thee come back to thine allegiance.”
The answer was scarcely what he expected.
“Father, it is of no use to talk to me. I hear what you say, of course; but it does me no good. My heart is numb.”
“Thou art right,” gently replied Bruno. “The south wind must blow upon the garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord—I will ask Him also—to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“How many Paters?” said the girl in a weary tone. “One will do, my daughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it.”
“I can put my heart into nothing.”