"Woman," he said calmly, even as I imagine Christ may have spoken of old, "release this prisoner, and make thy peace with God."
She endeavored to laugh mockingly, yet only a hollow semblance came from between her white lips. "Pah!" she cried nervously, "you speak bravely; pray, who gave you authority to give orders to the Daughter of the Sun?"
"One greater than the Sun, woman," he answered. "I speak to you in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, and by authority of the Holy Catholic Church."
She leaned yet farther forward, as though seeking to penetrate the shadow concealing his face, a perceptible tremor apparent in her voice.
"Who are you? Answer me!"
"I am called Father Ignatius, a priest of the Order of Jesuits."
"And what do you suppose I care for your Romish orders? They have no power here; a single wave of my hand would condemn you to the place of yonder slaves." Her color rose in the wave of passion, sweeping fear aside. "I have nothing but hatred for your black robe, and your interference only intensifies my purpose. Mark you now what I say; if it be the will of my people to put this cringing French woman to the torture, I lift not so much as a finger to change her fate. More, because of your insolence I give you also into their hands. We take no orders from the Church of Rome."
"Your people!" the words rang forth with such clearness as almost to bring me to my feet. "You foul fiend of hell, do you think thus to impose your vile imposture on me? I fear neither your power nor the cruelty of your savage satellites. My life is in the hands of my Master, who will give me strength to mock your torture. Two months ago I was bound to a stake in the valley below. Ask these fiends, who do your bidding, whether I shrank back in terror, or made outcry as the flame ate into my flesh. Gaze on these stumps blackened by fire, and learn how I value your threats. Peace, woman, and no longer mock the faith of your childhood."
"My childhood? You know nothing of that!"
"Do I not? Look upon my face, and judge."
He flung back his cowl, and the light fell full upon his countenance. Upon the silence broke a sharp cry, in which fear and surprise were strangely blended: "André Lafossier!"
"Right, woman; you have not forgotten. Sunk as you are in shame and evil deeds, conscience yet lives and haunts you. What do I know of you? Enough to justify calling you joint heir with all the fiends of hell, unless, like the thief on the Cross, repentance make white your black soul. Yet, 'tis in my heart that yours is the sin against the Spirit for which there is no forgiveness. Nothing in your face tells me of an awakening soul. You are a Queen, you say? Ay, of evil, of devils incarnate. I would rather be this poor woman bound to the stake than you upon a throne. Do your worst with us, but know that André Lafossier has nothing for you save disgust; still, as priest of Holy Church, I hold open the door of salvation through Jesus Christ."