He knelt there and told his tale, simply, and without clamour.
“It is the truth, sire,” he said at the end thereof, “so may I drink again of the Lord’s blood, and eat his bread at the holy table.”
“My God, what truth!”
The man’s voice swept the chapel like a wind, deep, sonorous, and terrible. The large face, the broad forehead, the deep-set eyes were turned to the casement and the west. The face was like the face of one who looks into hell. Jehan, on his knees, looked up and shivered. He had told the truth, and the storm awed him like a miracle. It seemed almost impious to be witness of a wrath that was as the righteous passion of a god.
“Gorlois tortures her?”
“To her death, sire.”
“The whole—spare nothing.”
“She is starved and scourged, and harlots mock her.”
“God!”
“They drag her soul in the mire.”