'Say no more,' she replied, sighing again. 'There is no help, I suppose. When I made up my mind to come here at all, I made up my mind that I would take you out—both of you. Yet—it is like walking over a grave, I shiver'—she did actually shiver as she spoke. 'I feel as if I were contriving a mischief for myself. These signs always come true—a mischief,' she repeated, 'to myself'—indeed she was, as you shall afterwards learn. 'As for the world you will certainly do as much mischief to that as you can.'
'As we can, Madam,' said the Bishop with a smile—he was easy now that he knew her mind. Before, he was inclined to be rough. 'The world, on the other hand, is always trying to do a mischief to me.'
'But mischief to you, Madam?' cried the captain, that mirror of gallantry. 'A soldier is all gratitude and honour. Mischief to you? Impossible!'
'And a Divine,' added the other with a grin, 'is all truth, fidelity, and honesty. His profession compels these qualities.'
'Quite so. Well, gentlemen of honour and truth, you shall once more return to the scenes and the pursuits and the companions that you love. Moll and Doll and Poll impatiently await you at the Black Jack. And I see, only a short mile from that hospitable place, another refuge—call it the Black Jug—where before long you will pass a few pleasant days of rest and repose before going forth in a glorious procession.'
'If we go forth in that procession', murmured the Bishop with lowering face, 'there are other people quite as deserving, who will sit there beside us.'
'Go,' she said. 'I have talked enough and more than enough with such as you. Go.'
They bowed again and walked away.
Now I heard this interview, half of which I did not understand, with amazement unspeakable. The lady was going to release this pair of villains—Why? Out of the boundless charity of her benevolent heart?
She looked after the precious pair, standing for a moment with her hand shading her eyes. The light went out of her face: a cloud fell upon it: she sighed again: her lips parted: she caught her breath. Ah! Poor lady! Thy face was made for joy and not for sorrow. What thought, what memory, was it that compelled the cloud and chased away the sunshine?