passionately. “Here is a mantle. Here is a cord for your loins. And here is a mat to sleep on. And here is bread, here is the water-pitcher. Eat, drink, cover yourself, and rest.”
“Thanks, holy father. But I am not tired, I am not hungry and thirsty. I am only naked, and I thank you for your mantle and your cord.”
She put on the mantle as a penance-garb, and whilst, red with shame, she covered herself, the hermit saw on her shoulder-blades two blood-red scar-stripes.
“Are you wounded?”
“I was, long ago. . . .”
“Your eyes glow: have you a fever?”
“I do not know men’s fever, but my soul is always burning like a cave in hell.”
“Who are you?”
“One heavy burdened with sin.”
“What is your name?”
“I have no name now, holy father. . . . Oh! ask no more. . . . And let me go.”
“Whither are you going?”
“Far, along the way of thistles, to the royal castle. To the Princess Emeralda.”
“She is proud.”
