There was a pause. I paced the chamber, a hundred thoughts crowding my mind, but overriding them all the conjecture of how far it might be from matins, and how soon we might be discovered by the monks. Presently she spoke again.
“Lazzaro,” she inquired very gently, “what was it brought you to the church?”
“I came with the others, Madonna, to the burial service,” answered I, and fearing such questions as might follow—questions that I had been dreading ever since I had brought her to the sacristy—“If you are recovered we had best be going,” I told her gruffly.
“Nay, I am not yet enough recovered,” answered she. “And before we go, there are some points in this strange adventure that I would have you make clear to me. Meanwhile, we are very well here. If the good fathers come upon us, what shall it signify?”
I groaned inwardly, and I grew, I think, more afraid than when Ramiro and his men had broken into the church an hour ago.
“What kept you here after all were gone?”
“I remained to pray, Madonna,” I answered brusquely. “Is aught else to be done in a church?”
“To pray for me, Lazzaro?” she asked.
“Assuredly, Madonna.”
“Faithful heart,” she murmured. “And I had used you so cruelly for the deception you practised. But you merited my cruelty, did you not, Lazzaro? Say that you did, else must I perish of remorse.”