"She came to us here in the valley, my lord, tall and white as a lily, her hair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her soles rent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches of a song, such as tells of love, and of Proserpina, Goddess of Shades. We took her, my lord, gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and gave her raiment. She abode with us, ever gentle and lovely, yet speaking like one who had suffered, even to the death. And yet,—even as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone!"—
The woman had never so much as raised her eyes to the man's face. Her hands held her crucifix, and she was ashen pale, even as new-hewn stone.
"And is this all?"
The man's voice trembled in his throat. His face was terrible to behold in the sun.
"Not all, my lord!"
"Say on!"
The anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle. Her voice was husky with tears.
"My lord, you seek one bereft of reason!"
"Mad!"
"Alas!"