The pierced feet of our dear Lord, crucified, had become more to her than the baby feet of the Infant Jesus, on His Mother's knee.
Yet, even as she knelt--supplicating, interceding, adoring--there echoed in her memory the wicked shriek of Mary Seraphine: "A dead God cannot help me! I want life, not death!" followed almost instantly by Hugh's stern question: "Is this religion ?" Truly, of late, wild voices had taken liberty of speech in the cell of the Prioress, and had left their impious utterances echoing behind them..