That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God
and the Saints!" quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of
yesterday's homily in the Frater.
"But how can'st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?" the dancer
persisted.
How did he know?
"How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?" he cried
triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and
anxious only to come well out of the wordy war.
But the unexpected happened.
"Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? _I_, love her?--I HATE
her;" and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of
weeping.
Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman's tears.
"Maid, maid," said Hilarius, in deep distress, "indeed I did not
mean to vex thee;" and he came up and laid his hand on her
shoulder.
So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!
The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and
more flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up
at him through shining lashes.
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