“Stop, stop!” Jane cried. “I will pay you well to stop.”
“Why then, miss?”
“Your God died on a cross,” Jane answered. “You shall not harm his crucifix.”
“Speak for yourself, miss! Shall not? My wull’s as strong as yours, I’ll warrant. God! There’s no God; else why be ye in velvets and her in rags? That’s why I trample this ’un.”
In another moment the crucifix would have lain beneath his heel; but Jane flung herself on her knees. All pride was gone; tears rained from her eyes; she, who had been used to command and to be obeyed, pleaded like a beggar, with humble yet passionate pleading, at the feet of this beggar and outcast.
“Wait, wait,” she cried. “Oh! hear me. Truly your God was born in a stable and died upon a cross. He loves you, and he was as poor as you.”
“There be no God,” the man reiterated hoarsely. “It’s easy for the likes o’ ye to talk, all warm and full and comfortable.”
Jane wrung her hands. “I cannot explain,” she said, “I cannot understand. But it must be that God knows best. He sent me. Come home with me, and I will give you food and clothes and money.”
“Not I,” cried the man defiantly. “I knows that trick too well, miss. Food and clothes belike, but a jail too. I’ll trust none. Pay me here.”
Jane turned her pocket out. “I have nothing with me,” she said. “Will you not trust me?” But in his hard-set face she read her answer while she spoke.