He drew the fool’s dagger from his girdle and held it to her by its blade.
“Have you the heart to drive this home?” he asked.
Perpetua seized the hilt eagerly.
“Ay, with all my heart, into my heart,” she cried, with a confidence that he could not question. “You are the gentlest tyrant in the world, and I will pray for you in paradise.” She pressed the weapon with both hands to her breast and bowed her head.
Robert felt certain that she would keep her word, yet the evil in him drove him to taunt her. “You do not strike,” he said.
Perpetua lifted her bright eyes, and he read in them the joy of a white soul escaping shame. On his ears her words came like saintly music. “I do but commend my spirit to its Maker. When it is done, of your clemency say a prayer by me. Farewell!”
She raised the weapon in the air, and Robert’s troubled soul assured him that she meant to strike, that she meant to die. Awful influences seemed to struggle around him, darkness striving with light. He caught at the light. Voices were calling in his ears, urging evil, urging good. He caught at the good.
“Stop!” he called. “I think your hand has driven a devil from my heart. You are a saint; you have a soldier’s courage; you have conquered me. I am your servant.”
Perpetua hid the knife in her bosom and came close to Robert. “Will you truly help me? Let me see your eyes. Yes, I believe you. How may we escape?”
Robert drew his withered body proudly up. “I will command them to set you free.”