“Oh, but she did nothing wicked. Her speech had far more about Our Lady and the Blessed Saints in it than you hear with the sisters at Bamberg.”
“Her tongue may have a jargon of piety, but her soul is given to Satan.”
Agnes sighed. Jerome was a saint, and he ought to know. Yet it was perplexing to understand that so prepossessing a woman as Martha had stricken hands with the Devil. Presently Agnes began again.
“Holy Saint Jerome, why do you never smile?”
“Have I not told you I was no saint?” and he waxed almost angry.
“Witch Martha and My Lady Abbess say that you are, and I believe they, not you, are right.”
There bubbled to Jerome’s lips an imprecation against those two women which might have seemed worthy of Baron Ulrich’s self. Jerome checked it just in time. “At least,” he comforted himself, “the arising of such blasphemies in my heart proves that I am still a naked sinner.”
“Maid Agnes,” said he, severely, “Witch Martha and the Abbess prattle folly. I am a very wicked man.”
“Is it for that cause you will not smile?”
“Yes;” but he knew she was incredulous.