“Thy words sound well,” said the low voice from the bed. “Very well, like the sound of sweet waters far away.”
“Far away, dear my Lady?”
“Ay, far away, Maude,—without (outside) my life and me.”
“Sweet Lady, if ye will but lift the portcullis, our Lord is ready and willing to come within. And whereinsoever He entereth, He bringeth withal rest and peace.”
“Rest! Peace!—Ay so. I guess there be such like gear some whither—for some folks.”
“They dwell whereso Christ dwelleth, Lady mine.”
“In Paradise, then! I told thee it were far hence.”
“Is Paradise far hence, Lady? I once heard say Father Ademar that it were not over three hours’ journey at the most; for the thief on the cross went there in one day, and it were high noon ere he set out.”
Maude stopped sooner than she intended, suddenly checked by a moan of pain from Custance. The mere mention of Ademar’s name seemed to evoke her overwhelming distress, as if it brought back the memory of all the miserable events over which she had been brooding for three days past. She rocked herself from side to side, as though her suffering were almost unendurable.
“If he could come back! O Maude, Maude!—if only he could come back!”