I know not if I feared more than
now when Brother Thomas had me in the still chamber, alone at his mercy.

So the minutes went by, the sun and shade flickering through the boughs
of the mulberry-tree, and the time seemed long. Perchance, I thought,
there had been war, as Charlotte had said, and my lady had departed in
anger with her father, and I was all undone. Yet I dared not go to seek
them in the house, not knowing how matters were passing, and whether I
should do good or harm. So I waited, and at length Charlotte came forth
alone. Now she walked slowly, her eyes bent on the ground, and, as she
drew near, I saw that they were red, and I guessed that she had been
weeping. So I gave up all for lost, and my heart turned to water within
me.

"I am sent to bid you come in," she said gravely.

"What has passed?" I cried. "For the saints' sake, tell me all!"

"This has passed, that I have seen such a lady as I never dreamed I
should see, and she has made me weep--foolish that I am!"

"Why, what did she? Did she speak unkindly then, to my kind nurse?"

For this I could in no manner have endured, nor have abased myself to
love one that was unjust, how dear soever; and none could be dearer than
Elliot. Yet unjust she might have been; and this thought to me was the
greatest torment.

"Speak unkind words? Oh, I remember my foolish talk, how I said that she
would never forgive me while the world stands. Nay, while her father was
with mine and with my mother, thanking them for what they did for you,
she led me apart to devise with me, and I took her to my chamber, and
there, with tears in her eyes, and in the sweetest manner, she prayed me
to pardon her for that she had been mad for a moment; and so, looking
meek as an angel, she awaited my word. And I could not but weep, though
to weep is never my way, and we embraced each the other, and I told her
how all your converse had ever been of her, even when you were beside
yourself, in your fever, and how never was so faithful a lover. Nay, I
bid you be glad, for I never deemed that any woman living on earth would
so repent and so confess herself to another, where she herself had first
been wroth, but would blame all the world rather, and herself--never. So
we women are not all alike, as I thought; for I would hardly have
forgiven, if I know myself; and yet I am no worse than another. Truly,
she has been much with the Maid, and has caught from her this, to be lik