"Christ is not, my Lord."
"Mistress Frideswide," was the earnest answer, "wit you what it is to stretch forth numb hands into the darkness, and not find them taken?—to feel none other hands meeting yours?"
"So long as the numbness is but in mine hands, my Lord, I know not that it signifieth much. They may be taken, yet be too numb to feel it. Truly, I am but a poor maid and a young, and of little wit: some doctor of the Church could aid your Lordship, but not I. Yet if I might speak one word, it should be,—dear my Lord, if our Lord have gripped hold of your Lordship, will it matter whether your hands have hold of Him or no? They be safe borne, methinks, whom Christ carrieth."
"Yet if one feel not the carrying—only a sense of falling down, down, into a pit whereto is no bottom"——
"My gracious Lord, can that be if you have trusted our Lord to carry you? Shall your feeling be put in enmity to His word? Have you come to Him? for if so, you give Him the lie to say He hath cast you out."
The Duke rose. "My maid," he said, "there be times when it looks to mine eyes as though mine whole life had been but one mighty blunder, and one great sin."
"Be it so, my Lord. Is Christ strong enough to bear it?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Is He reluctant to bear it?"
"I dare not say so much."