I had my cloak, a heavy, serviceable garment; and if more were needed, there was the pall which I had removed, and which lay in a heap about the legs of my bench.
I leaned forward, and passing my hand under her head, I gently raised it.

Then slipping it downwards, I thrust my arm after it until I had her round the waist in a firm grip.

Thus I raised her from the coffin, and the warmth of her body on my arm, the ready, supple bending of her limbs, were so many added proofs that she was not dead.
Gently and reverently I lifted her in my arms, an intoxication of holy joy pervading me, and the prayers falling faster from my lips than ever they had done since as a lad I had recited them at my mother's knee.

A moment I laid her on the bench, whilst I divested myself of my cloak.
Then suddenly I paused, and stood listening, holding my breath.
Steps were advancing towards the door.
My first impulse was to rush forward and call to those who came, shouting my news and imploring their help.

Then a sudden, an almost instinctive suspicion caught and chilled me.