He sank back a huddled heap upon the chair. There was foam about his
mouth, great beads of sweat upon his forehead. Mary wiped them away with
a corner of her apron, and felt again his trembling hands. "Oh, please
don't talk to him any more," she pleaded, "not till he's had his supper."
She fetched her fine shawl, and pinned it round him. His eyes followed
her as she hovered about him. For the first time, since he had entered
the room, they looked human.
They gathered round the table. Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up in
Mary's bright shawl. It lent him a curious dignity. He might have been
some ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud. Miss Ensor
completed her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes: "just to
keep us all company," as Mary had insisted.
The old fanatic's eyes passed from face to face. There was almost the
suggestion of a smile about the savage mouth.
"A strange supper-party," he said. "Cyril the Apostate; and Julius who
strove against the High Priests and the Pharisees; and Inez a dancer
before the people; and Joanna a daughter of the rulers, gathered together
in the house of one Mary a servant of the Lord.
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