And when he pressed her again to tell him why she had sought shelter in
his cave, she said that the land to the south, whence she came, was
full of armed companies and bands of marauders, and that great license
and bloodshed prevailed there; and this the Hermit knew to be true, for
he had heard of it on his homeward journey. The Wild Woman went on to
tell him that she had been hunted through the woods like an animal by a
band of drunken men-at-arms, Lansknechts from the north by their
barbarous dress and speech, and at length, starving and spent, had come
on his cave and hidden herself from her pursuers. "For," she said, "I
fear neither wild beasts nor the woodland people, charcoal burners,
Egyptians, wandering minstrels or chapmen; even the highway robbers do
not touch me, because I am poor and brown; but these armed men flown
with blood and wine are more terrible than wolves and tigers."
And the Hermit's heart melted, for he thought of his little sister
lying with her throat slit across the altar steps, and of the scenes of
blood and rapine from which he had fled away into the wilderness. So he
said to the stranger that it was not meet he should house her in his
cave, but that he would send a messenger to the town across the valley,
and beg a pious woman there to give her lodging and work in her
household. "For," said he, "I perceive by the blessed image about your
neck that you are not a heathen wilding, but a child of Christ, though
so far astray from Him in the desert."
"Yes," she said, "I am a Christian, and know as many prayers as you;
but I will never set foot in city walls again, lest I be caught and put
back into the convent."
"What," cried the Hermit with a start, "you are a runagate nun?" And he
crossed himself, and again thought of the demon.
She smiled and said: "It is true I was once a cloistered woman, but I
will never willingly be one again. Now drive me forth if you like; but
I cannot go far, for I have a wounded foot, which I got in climbing the
cliff with water for your garden." And she pointed to a deep cut in her
foot.
At that, for all his fear, the Hermit was moved to pity, and washed the
cut and bound it up; and as he did so he bethought him that perhaps his
strange visitor had been sent to him not for his soul's undoing but for
her own salvation. And from that hour he earnestly yearned to save her.
But it was not fitting that she should remain in his cave; so, having
given her water to drink and a handful of lentils, he raised her up and
putting his staff in her hand guided her to a hollow not far off in the
face of the cliff. And while he was doing this he heard the sunset
bells ring across the valley, and set about reciting the _Angelus
Domini nuntiavit Mariae_; and she joined in very piously, with her
hands folded, not missing a word.
Nevertheless the thought of her wickedness weighed on him, and the next
day when he went to carry her food he asked her to tell him how it came
about that she had fallen into such abominable sin. And this is the
story she told.