But Jerome’s great head had sunk upon his breast.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa; who am I to cast the first stone against this woman?”
“Well,” demanded the shrill voice, “may I come forth?”
“Come forth.”
And with a rustle there came from her shelter a woman—but what a woman! For her head would have risen only to Jerome’s breast, but her girth nigh equalled her height, or surpassed it. She had a weazened pock-marked little face, a very small mouth, still smaller black eyes, an exceedingly shrewd, upturned nose, and when she spoke her teeth shone white and sharp as Harun’s. Black was her kirtle, black the kerchief which trailed over grey locks and over shoulders, black her shoes when they peeped from under her dress, but Jerome (had the hermit an eye for such vanities) would have said that those feet were very small, and the hands small, too, and white,—hands which many a princely dame in Goslar or Hildesheim would have done well to envy. The ravens sat on either shoulder, winking their sinful eyes and waiting new chance for croaking.
Jerome’s attitude was sufficiently unconciliatory. He made not the least sign of greeting her.
“Have I not bidden you to come no more?” was all that he demanded.
The small nose turned itself up in derision.
“You have.”
“And have I not eschewed all the world, abandoned myself these many years to solitude and austerities, such as my weak flesh can bear,” and the hermit sighed modestly, “and yet you approach to tempt me? A man would be sufficient emissary from Satan, and you—a woman—”