'All is done,' she said. 'Nay, have no fear, the draught worked well.
Before ever a stone was laid mother and child slept sound. Alas for her
soul who died unrepentant and unshriven!'
'Alas for the souls of all who have shared in this night's work,' I
answered. 'Now, mother, let me hence, and may we never meet again!'
Then she led me back to the cell, where I tore off that accursed monk's
robe, and thence to the door in the garden wall and to the boat which
still waited on the river, and I rejoiced to feel the sweet air upon my
face as one rejoices who awakes from some foul dream. But I won little
sleep that night, nor indeed for some days to come. For whenever I
closed my eyes there rose before me the vision of that beauteous woman
as I saw her last by the murky torchlight, wrapped in grave clothes and
standing in the coffin-shaped niche, proud and defiant to the end, her
child clasped to her with one arm while the other was outstretched to
take the draught of death. Few have seen such a sight, for the Holy
Office and its helpers do not seek witnesses to their dark deeds, and
none would wish to see it twice. If I have described it ill, it is not
that I have forgotten, but because even now, after the lapse of some
seventy years, I can scarcely bear to write of it or to set out its
horrors fully. But of all that was wonderful about it perhaps the most
wonderful was that even to the last this unfortunate lady should still
have clung to her love for the villain who, having deceived her by a
false marriage, deserted her, leaving her to such a doom.
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