‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. ’ ‘I would have done, only you threatened to blow off my head,’ Gerald reminded her, laughing. No man knew whence she had come nor why. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. Shakily, she rose with the sword and drove it through Rhea’s heart.
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