"My beloved one, my beloved one, whom I have borne in my arms and
nourished with my milk,--ah! me, can the Lord God inflict this cruel
martyrdom upon me?"
No one replied, not even Gildas the Wise, who silently adjured the
All-Powerful, and recalled to Him the sacrifice of Abraham.
Josserande raised her axe, but she had the misfortune to look at the
wolf, who fixed his eyes, full of tears, upon her, and the axe fell from
her hands.
It was the wolf who picked it up, and when he gave it back to her, he
said,--
"I weep for you, my mother."
"Strike!" cried the crowd; for what remained of Pol and Matheline
uttered terrible groans. "Strike! strike!"
While Josserande again seized her axe, the grand abbot had time to
say,--
"Do not complain, you two unhappy ones; for your suffering here below
changes your hell into heaven."
Three times Josserande raised the axe, three times she let it fall
without striking; but at last she said, in a hoarse tone that sounded
like a death-rattle, "I have great faith in the good God!" and then she
struck boldly, for the wolf's head split in two halves.