This was news that struck the irony out of Grimbald’s mouth. He laid the yew bough aside on the heather, and became at once the demi-god, and the seer.
“What is that you are saying, man Oswald? Why are you troubled for Denise?”
Oswald looked like a wise dog that has come by kicks undeservedly, and is now to be commended.
“The door of the cell is always shut,” he said, “and never a word or a sound have we now from our lady. What is more, Father, the stuff we took there two days ago was still by the wicket when one of the lads went up this morning.”
Grimbald looked thoughtful.
“Have you tried the door?” he asked.
“We durst not, thinking she might be in a vision or in prayer.”
“Did you call to her?”
“Not above asking her blessing, Father, and telling of the food, and news of you. And it was four days ago that her voice answered us, but since then we have heard no sound.”
Grimbald stood up slowly on the bed, propping himself with his arms against the walls of the pit.