“God give rest to all sinners,” she said sententiously, “we will do what we can for the girl. It is a pity that she should not have been shrived.”
Aymery’s face would have made Marpasse weep. It had no meaning for Madame Ursula.
“I would see her, before I go,” he said.
And his heart added:
“Perhaps for the last time.”
Ursula’s sympathy was purely perfunctory. They had carried Denise into the little infirmary, and laid her upon a bed. She still breathed, and two of the nuns who had some knowledge of leech-craft, had unwound the swathings, but feared to touch the pad that Marpasse had forced into the wound. They had poured oil and a decoction of astringent herbs thereon, wiped the blood-stains from the bosom, and swathed Denise in clean linen. Then they had given her into the hands of the saints, and sat down to watch, whispering to each other across the bed.
The slant of the late sunshine came into the room when Aymery entered at the trail of Ursula’s gown. The sunlight struck upon the bed where Denise lay white as a lily with the glory of her hair shining like molten gold. And to Aymery it seemed that she smiled sadly like one dreaming the end of some sad dream.
Ursula’s starched wimple creaked in the still room. She stood looking down from a pinnacle of righteousness; the two nuns rose and went to the window, taking care to see all that passed.
Their bodies shut off the sunlight from Denise’s face, and threw it into shadow. Aymery was standing beside the bed. The two nuns glanced at one another, and were ready to titter when he knelt down in his battle harness as though praying, or taking some vow.
Before he rose he touched one of Denise’s hands, and it was as cold as snow when he laid it against his lips. Ursula made a sharp sound in her throat. Such happenings were not discreet before women who were celibates.