‘But your reverence is not going away like that! Accept something to drink, at least; this wine is very old.’

Antiochus was already holding the tray with a glass goblet upon it.

‘Then only a little,’ said Paul.

Leaning across the bar, the woman poured out the wine, careful not to spill a drop. Paul raised his glass, within which the ruby liquid exhaled a perfume like a dusky rose, and after first making Antiochus taste it, he put it to his own lips.

‘Then let us drink to the future parish priest of Aar!’ he said.

Antiochus was obliged to lean against the bar, for his knees gave way under him; that was the happiest moment of his life. The woman had turned round to replace the precious bottle on the shelf, and, absorbed in his joy, the lad did not notice that the priest had gone deathly pale and was staring out of the doorway as though he beheld a ghost.

A dark figure was running silently across the square, came to the wine-shop door, looked round the interior with wide-open black eyes, and then entered, panting.

It was one of Agnes’s servants.

The priest instinctively withdrew to the far end of the tavern, trying to hide himself, then came forward again on a sudden impulse. He felt as if he were revolving round and round like a top, then pulled himself together and remembered that he was not alone and must be careful not to excite remark. So he stood still. But he had no desire to hear what the servant was telling the woman, listening eagerly behind the bar, his only desire was flight and safety; his heart had stopped beating, and all the blood in his body had rushed to his head and was roaring in his ears. Nevertheless the servant’s words penetrated to the utmost depths of his soul.

‘She fell down,’ said the girl breathlessly, ‘and the blood poured from her nose in a stream, such a stream that we thought she had broken something inside her head! And she’s bleeding still! Give me the keys of St. Mary of Egypt, for that is the only thing that can stop it.’

Antiochus, who stood listening with the tray and glass still in his hands, ran to fetch the keys of an old church, now demolished, which keys when actually laid on the shoulders of anyone suffering from hæmorrhage of the nose did to some extent arrest the flow of blood.

‘All this is just pretence,’ thought Paul, ‘there is no truth whatever in the tale. She sent her servant to spy on me and endeavour to lure me to her house, and they are probably in league with this worthless woman here.’

And yet deep, deep within him the agitation grew till all his being was in a tumult. Ah no, the servant was not lying; Agnes was too proud to confide in anyone, and least of all in her servants. Agnes was really ill, and with his inward eye he saw her sweet face all stained with blood. And it was he himself who had struck her the blow. ‘We thought she had broken something inside her head.’