Whereat the three raced up from that dungeon, never waiting for the door to clash.
CHAPTER VII
FRITZ THE MASTERLESS
NOW when Agnes awoke from her sleep, when she heard Jerome at his prayer, when she heard him call to God to remove his temptress,—sent to vex him by Beelzebub, catcher of souls,—then a surge of sorrow, deeper than she had ever known before, had swept over her heart. She had cried once and softly; she had risen from her furze-bed, and reckless of everything had stolen away into the forest. Only one thing she knew,—the great saint hated her! He believed Satan had thrust her upon him. She was too sinful to bear company with this holy man, and must flee away, far away! All her heinous crimes rose up to stare her in the face, the thirty Aves her confessor had enjoined upon her, and which she had forgotten to say, the five spice-cakes which she had filched from My Lady Abbess’s cupboard, and which she had never confessed at all,—these and more foul deeds weighed down her soul. The all-wise saint had beheld its vileness, and called to God to deliver her to her just possessor, Satan.
When she knew aught else the great black woods were everywhere. There was only a flickering will-o’-the-wisp light here—there amongst the numberless trees. She dared not pray. Once she screamed, but the cry was dried up in her throat. In her blind anguish she wandered aimlessly through thorn and thicket, brier and brake. How many times she all but tripped into some ravine, or dashed on jagged rocks the angels in mercy hid, for Saint Azrael surely guided her wild feet then, though she thought the demons after her. At last spent with fatigue she sank upon a moss bank. An older person would have tossed and moaned till dawn; happier she—once more her eyes grew heavy. Fear and anguish vanished. She could sleep.
When Agnes this time woke it was with a start and with groaning. Trees, everywhere trees. The dawn was still young. The light was red. She was lonely, thirsty, hungry. There came a rambling rustle from the dead leaves near at hand. Hope leaped up that it was Harun, but only a tawny fox spread his proud brush and vanished, scampering at first sight of her. In these deepest glades of the beeches not a bird was carolling morning.