Robert leaped to his feet at the sound of the familiar voice, and moved to meet Hieronymus.
“Father, when we came to you a month ago and begged for shelter, I told you how I lied to save the girl, pretending to be plague-stricken.”
Hieronymus inclined his head. “And I absolved you.”
Robert spoke in a lower voice, almost a whisper. “I told you, too, that I was Sicily, Robert himself, lapped in this hideous shape.”
Hieronymus raised a warning hand. “Does that delusion still vex you?” he asked, sadly.
Robert bowed his head. “My spirit is free from many delusions,” he whispered; “but I did not tell you that I, unlovely as I am, I love Perpetua. Her hand has led me, her voice has inspired me. If ever I be saved she will have saved me.”
The grave face of Hieronymus looked kindly pity upon the fool in the friar’s gown.
“God chooses the time and the way. An earthly love may win the grace of Heaven.”
Robert sighed. “My hopeless love is happy service. Daily my spirit creeps a little nearer to the light.”
Hieronymus beat his breast.