"Well!" said Jack again, as Anne made another pause.
"The poison entered into her soul," continued Anne, speaking in a still lower tone, and shivering as with horror. "She became infected, and she spoke profane and slighting words of the saints, and of our Lady herself, even declaring that there was no warrant in Scripture for asking her intercession. More she spoke that I cannot repeat—that I dare not think of. Oh, would that she had never spoken to me of the matter! Would it had not been my lot—"
"Anne, you did not betray her!" cried Jack indignantly. "You did not betray your friend?"
"What could I do?" murmured Anne, her face once more hidden. "I must needs go to confession, and answer the questions which were asked of me. I was her confidant, and the priest knew that, and questioned me shrewdly. I was obliged to tell, and—oh, woe is me! Woe is me! Why was I ever born? She was called before the prioress and the priest, all the sisters standing by, and there she avowed her heresy, and spoke out boldly. She was a modest, shamefaced girl in general, but she was fearless enough then. Never, never shall I forget her face and her voice. They dragged her away at last, and as she was going, I fell at her feet—I could not help it—and implored her forgiveness."
"She looked down upon me with her sweet eyes full of tears. 'I forgive you, Anne, if there is aught to forgive,' said she. 'You could not help yourself, I suppose. These are the days spoken of by our Lord, when the brother shall betray the brother to death; but whosoever shall endure to the end shall be saved. Pray for me, dear Anne, as I shall for thee.'"
"Then they drew me away with bitter words of reproach, and I knew no more till I found myself in my cell, with kind old Mother Paula watching over me."
"And what became of Agnes?" asked Jack.
Anne shivered again. "That I never knew. I did venture to ask once of Mother Paula, but she only crossed herself and shook her head. She may yet be alive in some lonely cell, or her bones may be mouldering in the vault below the convent. I dare not ask or think."
"What did they say to you?" asked Jack.
"Father Barnabas was very hard upon me, and gave me many severe penances. I know not what might have been done, had the prioress not stood my friend. But she was a tender-hearted lady; more than that, she was a daughter of my lord, and a person of weight and authority, so she had her own way. She sent me home at last for a change, as she said, that I might recover my health and see somewhat of the world before taking the veil."