The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter

25

When Benedicta had finished I remained silent, for in the presence of such a sorrow what could I say? For such wounds as hers religion has no balm. As I thought of the cruel wrongs of this humble and harmless family there came into my heart a feeling of wild rebellion against the world, against the Church, against God! They were brutally unjust, horribly, devilishly unjust!—God, the Church, and the world.

Our very surroundings—the stark and soulless wilderness, perilous with precipices and bleak with everlasting snows—seemed a visible embodiment of the woeful life to which the poor child had been condemned from birth; and truly this was more than fancy, for since her father's death had deprived her of even so humble a home as the hangman's hovel she had been driven to these eternal solitudes by the stress of want. But below us were pleasant villages, fertile fields, green gardens, and homes where peace and plenty abided all the year.

After a time, when Benedicta was somewhat composed, I asked her if she had anyone with her for protection.

'I have none,' she replied. But observing my look of pain, she added: 'I have always lived in lonely, accurst places; I am accustomed to that. Now that my father is dead, there is no one who cares even to speak to me, nor any whom I care to talk with—except you.' After a pause she said: 'True, there is one who cares to see me, but he——'

Here she broke off, and I did not press her to explain lest it should embarrass her. Presently she said: 'I knew yesterday that you were here. A boy came for some milk and butter for you. If you were not a holy man the boy would not have come to me for your food. As it is, you cannot be harmed by the evil which attaches to everything I have or do. Are you sure, though, that you made the sign of the cross over the food yesterday?'

'Had I known that it came from you, Benedicta, that precaution would have been omitted,' I answered.

She looked at me with beaming eyes, and said:

'Oh, dear sir, dear Brother!'

And both the look and the words gave me the keenest delight—as, in truth, do all this saintly creature's words and ways.

I inquired what had brought her to the cliff-top, and who the person was that I had heard her calling.

'It is no person,' she answered, smiling; 'it is only my goat. She has strayed away, and I was searching for her among the rocks.'

Then nodding to me as if about to say farewell, she turned to go, but I detained her, saying that I would assist her to look for the goat.

We soon discovered the animal in a crevice of rock, and so glad was Benedicta to find her humble companion that she knelt by its side, put her arms about its neck and called it by many endearing names. I thought this very charming, and could not help looking upon the group with obvious admiration.

Benedicta, observing it, said: 'Her mother fell from a cliff and broke her neck. I took the little one and brought it up on milk, and she is very fond of me. One who lives alone as I do values the love of a faithful animal.'

When the maiden was about to leave me I gained courage to speak to her of what had been so long in my mind. I said: 'It is true, is it not, Benedicta, that on the night of the festival you went to meet the drunken boys in order to save your father from harm?'

She looked at me in great astonishment. 'For what other reason could you suppose I went?'

'I could not think of any other,' I replied, in some confusion.

'And now good-bye, Brother,' she said, moving away.

'Benedicta,' I cried. She paused and turned her head.

'Next Sunday I shall preach to the dairy women at the Green Lake ; will you come?'

'Oh, no, dear Brother,' she replied hesitating and in low tones.

'You will not come?'

'I should like to come, but my presence would frighten away the dairy women and others whom your goodness would bring there to hear you. Your charity to me would cause you trouble. I pray you, sir, accept thanks, but I cannot come.'

'Then I shall come to you.'

'Beware, oh pray, beware!'

'I shall come.'