“I know.” Belasez’s face was more troubled than before.
“If thou canst not trust His priests, couldst thou not trust Him?”
“Trust whom?” exclaimed Belasez, with her eyes on fire. “O Doucebelle, Doucebelle, I know not how to bear it! I thought I was so strong to stand up against all falsehood and error,—and here, one man, with one word,—Let me hold my peace. But O that Thou wouldst rend the heavens, that Thou wouldst come down! Hast Thou but one blessing, O Thou that art a Father unto Israel? Or are we so much worse off than our fathers in the desert? Nay, are we not in the desert, with no leader to guide us, no fiery pillar to bid us rest here, or journey thither? Why hast Thou given the dearly-beloved of Thy soul into the hands of her enemies? Is it—is it, because we hid our faces—from Him!”
And to Doucebelle’s astonishment, Belasez covered her face with her apron, and sobbed almost as if her heart were breaking.
“Poor Belasez!” said Doucebelle, gently. “It is often better to tell out what troubles us, than to keep it to ourselves.”
“If thou wert a daughter of Israel, I should tell it thee, and ask thy counsel. I need some one’s counsel sorely.”
“And canst thou not trust me, Christian though I am?”
“Oh no, it is not that. Thou dost not understand, Doucebelle. Thou couldst not enter into my difficulty unless thou wert of my faith. That is the reason. It is not indeed that I mistrust thee.”
“Hast thou told thy father?”
“My father? No! He would be as much horrified to hear that such thoughts had ever entered my head, as the Lady would be if thou wert to tell her thou didst not believe any longer in thy Christ.”