Doucebelle looked up earnestly, and the girls’ eyes met. One of them was groping in the darkness in search of Christ. The other had groped her way through the darkness, and had caught hold of Him. She did not see His Face very clearly, but enough so to be sure that it was He.
“Belasez, dear maid, He said one other thing. ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Trust me, the surest way to find out who He is, is to come to Him.”
“What meanest thou? He is not on earth.”
“He is where thy need is,” answered Doucebelle gently. “In any labyrinth out of which we know not the way,—over any grave where our hearts lie buried,—we can meet Him.”
“But how? Thy words are a riddle to me.”
“Call Him, and see if He do not come to thee. And if He and thou do but meet, it does not much matter by which track thou earnest thither.”
Belasez was silent, and seemed to be thinking deeply.
“Doucebelle,” she said at last, “are there two sorts of Christians? Because thy language is like the Bishop of Lincoln’s. All the priests, and other Christians, whom I have heard before, spoke in quite another strain.”
“There are live Christians, and dead ones. I know not of any third sort.”
“The dead ones must be fearfully in the majority!” said Belasez: “I mean, if thou and the Bishop are live ones.”