Ay, my hair is indeed wet, and my feet--see, my feet that were once so white, see how the mud has soiled them.

But I have made a vow--I will not wash them till I have seen the King, and until he has granted me Urbain's pardon.

I am going to the army to find him; I will speak to him as Grandier taught me to speak, and he will pardon him.

And listen, I will also ask thy pardon, for I read it in thy face that thou, too, art condemned to death.

Poor youth! thou art too young to die, thy curling hair is beautiful; but yet thou art condemned, for thou hast on thy brow a line that never deceives.