"Ay," answered Lady Judith. "'Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.' Thou knowest it, my sister?—thou hast washed? Ay, 'we believers enter into rest.'"
I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith—of the Cæsars' purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and old Marguerite,—a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,—marvel to relate! they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendly ever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must be some mystery. I do not understand it at all.
Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on the summit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lord ascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and though palmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yet the impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that I told Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. But she did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of something else.
"Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church, and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He will come again. Thank God! He will come again. 'This same Jesus'—the same that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of the cross,—the same that said 'Weep not' to the bereaved mother, and 'Go in peace' to the woman that was a sinner—the very same, Himself, and none other. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and die here, if it were."
"O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thou art alive?"
"Only the good God knows that," she said, still looking up intently through the roof of the church,—or where the roof should have been—into the sky. "But I would it might. If I could find it in my heart to envy any mortal creature, it would be them who shall look up, maybe with eyes dimmed by tears, and see Him coming!"
"I cannot comprehend thee, Margot," said I. "I think it would be just dreadful. I can hardly imagine a greater shock."
"Suppose, at this moment, my Damoiselle were to look behind her, and see Monseigneur Count Guy standing there, smiling on her,—would she think it a dreadful shock?"
"Margot! How can the two be compared?"
"Only love can compare them," answered the old woman softly.