“Never a whit!” cried Maude earnestly. “Dear my Lady, not one cross (farthing) thereof! That which we suffer at the hand of our Father is not debt, but discipline; the chastising of the son, not the work wrung by lash from the slave. ‘The children are free.’”
“Ay, free from the curse and the second death,” she said, still despondingly; “but from pains and penalties of sin in this life, Maude, not freed. An’ I cut mine hand with yonder knife, God shall not heal the wound by miracle because I am His child.”
Maude felt that the illustration was true, but she was not sure that it was apposite, neither was she convinced that her own view was mistaken. She glanced at Sir Ademar de Milford, who sat on the settle, studying the works of Saint Augustine, as if to ask him to answer for her. Ademar was no longer the family confessor, for the family had given over confessing; but Archbishop Chichele, professing himself satisfied of his orthodoxy, had revoked the now useless writ of excommunication, and the priest had resumed his duties as chaplain. Ademar laid down his book in answer to the appealing glance from Maude’s eyes.
“Lady,” he said, “how much, I pray you, is owing to your Grace from the young ladies your daughters, for food and lodging?”
“Owing from my little maids!” exclaimed Constance.
“That is it which I would know,” replied Ademar gravely.
“From my little maids!” she repeated in astonishment.
“It is written, Madam, in His book, that as one whom his mother comforteth, He comforteth us. Wherefore, seeing that the comfort your Grace looketh for at His hands is to have you afore the reeve for payment of your debts, it setteth me to think that you shall needs use your children likewise.”
“Never!” cried Constance emphatically. “And so say I, Lady,” returned Ademar significantly. “But, Sir Ademar, God doth chastise His children!”
“Truly so, Madam, as you yours. But I marvel which is the more sufferer—yourself or the child.”