"Well, and last Sunday there was a man there, not exactly in a friar's robe, but clad in sackcloth, as if he were in mourning; but he said none but very good words; they were just like the holy Evangel which Father Eudes reads. Very comforting words they were, too. He said the good Lord cared even for the sparrows, poor little things!—and very much more for us that trusted Him. I should like to hear him preach again."
"Take care how thou dost!" said I, as I lay down in bed. "I am afraid, Margot, he is one of those Lyonnese serpents."
"Well!" said Marguerite, as she tucked me up, "he had no sting, if he were."
"No, the sting comes afterwards," said I. "And thou art but a poor villein, and ignorant, and quite unable to judge which is the true doctrine of holy Church, and which the wicked heresy that we must shut our ears against."
"True, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite meekly. "But to say that the dear, blessed Lord cares for His poor servants—no, no!—that is no heresy!"
"What is heresy?" said I. "And what is truth? Oh dear! If one might know, one's own self!"
"Ah! Pilatus asked that of the good God, when He stood before his judgment-seat. But he did not wait for the answer."
"I wish he had done!" I answered. "Then we might have known it. But I suppose the good Lord would have told him to submit himself to the Church. So we should not have been much better off, because we do know that."
"We are better off, my Damoiselle," said old Marguerite. "For though the good God did not answer Pilatus—maybe he was not worthy—He did answer the same question, asked by Monseigneur Saint Thomas. Did not my Damoiselle hear Father Eudes read that in French? It was only a few weeks ago."
I shook my head. I cannot imagine when or how Marguerite does hear all these things. I never do. But she went on.