"To remove her in any way," persisted the lady, in a whisper. "Yet the world might call it murder."
"No punishment in this world is adequate to her sin," answered the monk. "And she must not be suffered to remain in it."
"Thou wilt then grant me absolution beforehand, holy father," implored the Lady Adelaide.
"And what canst thou do, my child?" resumed the monk, smiling upon the countess. "Thou hast not been used to such work, and wouldst prove a sad novice at it."
"Too true," she uttered; "my heart is trembling now. Indeed, I could think but of one way—the moat. And though the order seems easy enough to give, I fear I should, when the moment came, shrink from issuing it."
"And who hast thou in this castle that will do thy bidding in secret and in silence? It were better that this deed were not known: and thou canst not stop tongues, my daughter."
"There are many bound to my interests, who would, I believe, lay down their lives for me," deliberated the Lady Adelaide; "yet, alas! the tongue is an unruly member, and is apt to give utterance in unguarded moments to words against the will."
"Thou hast reason, my child. I but put the question to try thee. I will undertake this business for thee. That evil one's sin has been committed against the Church, and it is fitting that the Church should inflict the punishment."
"Thou wilt cause her to be flung into the moat?" shuddered the Lady Adelaide.
"The moat!" echoed the priest. "Thinkest thou, my daughter, that the Church is wont to carry out her dealings by ordinary means? Signal as this woman's sin has been, signal must be her expiation."