Again that look of intense pain crossed Bruno’s face.
“No wonder!” he said, speaking not to Belasez. “The very face—the very look! No wonder!—And thy mother?”
“My mother is Licorice, the daughter of Kokorell of Lincoln.”
Bruno gave a little nod, as if he had known it before.
“Hast thou any brethren or sisters?”
“One brother only; his name is Delecresse.”
The reply seemed to extinguish Bruno’s interest. For a moment, as if his thoughts were far elsewhere, he played with a morsel of sewing-silk which he had picked up from the floor.
“The Lord is wiser than men,” he said at last, as if that were the conclusion to which his unseen thoughts had led him.
“Yes; and better,” answered the young Jewess.
“And better,” dreamily repeated the priest. “We shall know that one day, when we wake up to see His Face.”