"Did she intend doing that?" asked Cyprian. "Ferlie, what a joke!"
"It was no joke, I assure you," contradicted Jellybrand, "She stood there—w-would you believe it?—w-with that horrid little w-weapon pointing in all directions at once, and rank murder in her face."
Then Ferlie said a horrible thing. So horrible for her that the padre dropped his tea-cup and Cyprian raised himself upright to meet her blazing eyes.
"I'd have re-crucified Christ!" said Ferlie.
In the petrified silence which followed Cyprian extended his one arm. She went to him, startled into comprehension of her own words, and hid her face in his sleeve.
"It's all right," muffled tones assured them. "Do you suppose that, because you don't understand, all Heaven doesn't?"
Neither answered, till Cyprian said uncertainly,
"You might make me terribly conceited, Ferlie."
"Or terribly humble," she answered, still in the dark.
Jellybrand mopped up, with his handkerchief, the mess he had made, and poured himself out some more tea. His wrist was unsteady and he slopped the milk afresh over the table.