“There, now, be tranquil, there is no other wound, as yet; I am writing about one which I shall get when we storm that bastille to-morrow.”
Catherine had the look of one who is trying to understand a puzzling proposition but cannot quite do it. She said, in a distraught fashion:
“A wound which you are going to get? But—but why grieve your mother when it—when it may not happen?”
“May not? Why, it will.”
The puzzle was a puzzle still. Catherine said in that same abstracted way as before:
“Will. It is a strong word. I cannot seem to—my mind is not able to take hold of this. Oh, Joan, such a presentiment is a dreadful thing—it takes one’s peace and courage all away. Cast it from you!—drive it out! It will make your whole night miserable, and to no good; for we will hope—”
“But it isn’t a presentiment—it is a fact. And it will not make me miserable. It is uncertainties that do that, but this is not an uncertainty.”
“Joan, do you know it is going to happen?”
“Yes, I know it. My Voices told me.”
“Ah,” said Catherine, resignedly, “if they told you—But are you sure it was they?—quite sure?”