'That is thankless and sinful,' muttered the nun. 'Thankless and sinful to heaven and to earth.'
'Hush!' said Othmar to the Sister with a frown; he was troubled and distressed by the child's passionate rebuke. He hated at all times to see the sorrow of a woman, and he was too ignorant of her circumstances to know how to console her. He could not have told why, but a memory of Yseulte passed over his mind; a memory which rarely ever rose at any time before his thoughts. Nothing could be more unlike her than this sea-born, impetuous, daring child; yet he remembered her as he saw Damaris weep. How many tears had the dead girl wept for him! how often had her young eyes looked wistful and sorrowful out on these green gardens, on these towering trees, on these distant and gilded domes of Paris!
The nun cast angry glances at him, and began to tell her beads.
Othmar remained silent till the first force of grief had a little spent itself. Then he said the first consoling words which occurred to him, without remembering all to which they might commit him in the future.
'My dear child, do not talk of death. Death and youth are horrible in the same phrase. Your life is scarcely begun, why should you wish it away? If you have no other friends than ourselves, do not deem yourself friendless. We will supply the place of others to you. You will remember the interest which my wife took in you at St. Pharamond. Believe me, it will be only strengthened by any sorrow or misfortune you may have had since we saw you then.'
She looked at him, strongly grateful, yet hurt and ashamed.
'It is charity,' she said, in a low tone. All the pride of her indomitable childhood was in the word.
'I do not like the expression,' he replied. 'You will pain me if you use it. I should be a cur if I had not done the little that I have done, for you would certainly,' he added more gaily, 'have done as much for me if I had been wrecked off Bonaventure.'
She sighed wearily. No kindness of speech could reconcile her to the burden of debt which she felt laid on her. She knew she was all alone in the world and homeless, except so far as this stranger's home was momentarily hers, and she shrank with horror from the memory of all she must have owed to him during these weeks of sickness and semi-consciousness.
He saw the pain and humiliation there were in her, and rose to leave her in peace.