The torment of breath in her bosom was bad to see.
'Touch me not, Count of Poictou;' she whispered the words, and then moaned, 'O God, what will become of me ?' 'Madame,' said Richard, rather dry, 'God may answer your question, since He knows all things, but certainly I cannot, unless you first tell me what has hitherto become of you.' She steadied herself by the wall, her palms flat upon it, and leaned her body forward like one who searches in a dark place.

Then, shaking her head, she let it fall to her breast.

'Is there any sorrow like my sorrow ?' says she to herself, as though he had not been there.
Richard grew stern.

'So asked in His agony the Son of high God,' he reproved her.

'If you dare ask Him that in His own words your sorrow must be deep.' She said, 'It is most deep.' 'But His,' said Richard, 'was bitter shame.' She said, 'And mine is bitter.' 'But His was undeserved.' He spoke scorn; so then she lifted up her head, and with eyes most piteous searched his face.