“It is where I, too, would be now—in the chapel prison yonder,” said I gently. “But I lay in the woods, wounded, too sick to go to the reading, so I escaped.”
The resentment faded out. She saw that I was not one of those who shamed her husband’s credulity. I might have been caught too, had I been given the same chance.
“For the little ones, I pray you accept this silver, and count it a loan to your husband in his prison,” said I, slipping two broad Spanish pieces into her hand.
She looked grateful and astonished, but had no words ready.
“And do, I beg of you, a kindness to one in bitter need of it,” I went on. “You know Father Fafard?”
Her face lightened with love.
“He grieves for me, thinking me dead,” said I. “Tell him, I beg of you, that one who loves him waits to see him in the wood by the lower ford.”
Her face clouded with suspicion.
“How shall I know—how shall he know—you are honest?” she asked.
I was troubled.