The light died out of the eager eyes, and the old white head sank back upon the pillow, the face turned away from the watchers. Amphillis approached her, and tenderly smoothed the satin coverlet.
“Let be!” she said, in a low voice. “My heart is broken.”
Amphillis, who could scarcely restrain her own sobs, glanced at the Archbishop for direction. He answered her by pressing a finger on his lips. Perrote came in, her lips set, and her brows drawn. She had evidently overheard those significant words. Then they heard the tramp of the horses in the courtyard, the sound of the trumpet, the cry of “Notre Dame de Gwengamp!” and they knew that the Duke was departing. They did not know, however, that the parting guest was sped by a few exceedingly scathing words from his sister, who had heard his remark to the squire. She informed him, in conclusion, that he could strike off her head, if he had no compunction in staining his spotless ermine banner with his own kindly blood. It would make very little difference to her, and, judging by the way in which he used his dying mother, she was sure it could make none to him.
The Duke flung himself into his saddle, and dashed off down the slope from the gate without deigning either a response or a farewell.
As the Archbishop left the Countess’s chamber, he beckoned Amphillis into the corridor.
“I tarry not,” said he, “for I can work no good now. This is not the time. A stricken heart hath none ears. Leave her be, and leave her to God. I go to pray Him to speak to her that comfort which she may receive alone from Him. None other can do her any help. To-morrow, maybe—when the vexed brain hath slept, and gentle time hath somewhat dulled the first sharp edge of her cruel sorrow—then I may speak and be heard. But now she is in that valley of the shadow, where no voice can reach her save that which once said, ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ and which the dead shall hear in their graves at the last day.”
“God comfort her, poor Lady!” said Amphillis. “Ay, God comfort her!” And the Archbishop passed on.
He made no further attempt to enter the invalid chamber until the evening of the next day, when he came in very softly, after a word with Perrote—no part of any house was ever closed against a priest—and sat down by the sufferer. She lay much as he had left her. He offered no greeting, but took out his Evangelistarium from the pocket of his cassock, and began to read in a low, calm voice.
“‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, for He hath anointed Me; He hath sent Me to evangelise the poor, to heal the contrite in heart, to preach liberty to the captives and sight to the blind, to set the bruised at liberty, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of retribution.’” (Luke four, verses 18, 19, Vulgate version.)
There was no sound in answer. The Archbishop turned over a few leaves.