"Who asked you to forgive him?" said the shrewd priest. "Your own heart. Come, look at him."
"Not I," said she, irresolutely. Then, still more feebly: "He is naught to me." And so stole a look at him.
Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand on his brow, and his eyes were fixed with horror and remorse.
"Something tells me she has spoken the truth," he said, in a quavering voice. Then, with concentrated horror, "But if so—O God, what have I done?—What shall I do?"
Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms towards him across the priest.
"Why, fall at thy wife's knees and ask her to forgive thee."
Griffith obeyed: he fell on his knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head on Francis's shoulder, and gave her hand across him to her remorse-stricken husband.
Neither spoke, nor desired to speak; and even Father Francis sat silent, and enjoyed that sweet glow which sometimes blesses the peacemaker, even in this world of wrangles and jars.
But the good soul had ridden hard, and the neglected meats emitted savory odors; and by and by he said dryly, "I wonder whether that fat pullet tastes as well as it smells: can you tell me, Squire?"
"O, inhospitable wretch that I am!" said Mrs. Gaunt: "I thought but of my own heart."