“Jeanne, Jeanne,” I cried, but my voice died on my lips, and I fell on my knees among the weeds. And as God willed it, I, not knowing, had fallen kneeling before a crumbling shrine carved in stone for our Mother of Sorrows. I saw the sad face of the Virgin wrought in the cold stone. I saw the cross and thorns at her feet, and beneath it I read:
“Pray for the soul of the Demoiselle Jeanne D’Ys, who died in her youth for love of Philip, a Stranger. AD 1573.”
But upon the icy slab lay a woman’s glove still warm and fragrant.