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“It is lawful for a Christian man to dedicate his son to God,” Abbot Raban said sternly. “Such offering cannot be withdrawn without great sin.”

“Is it not an equal sin for a man to be bound against his nature and his will?”

“If a man will not turn, He will whet His sword,” Abbot Raban said portentously. “He hath bent His bow and made it ready. He hath prepared for him the instruments of death.”

“That is tyranny, not truth!” Gottschalk cried passionately.

“Shame!” “Sinner!” “For shame, Brother!” Scattered cries of outrage punctuated a chorus of hissing from the brethren.

“Your disobedience, my son, has placed your immortal soul in grievous danger,” Abbot Raban said solemnly. “There is but one cure for such a disease—in the just and terrible words of the Apostle: Tradere hujusmodi hominem in interitum carnis, ut spiritus salvus sit in diem Domini—such a man must be handed over for the destruction of his flesh, that his spirit may be saved on the day of the Lord.”

At Raban’s signal, two of the decani júniores, brothers in charge of monastic discipline, took hold of Gottschalk and pushed him to the center of the room. He offered no resistance as they shoved him to his knees and roughly pulled up his robes, exposing his naked buttocks and back. From one corner of the room where it was kept for just this purpose, Brother Germar, the senior deacon, retrieved a sturdy willow stick, at the end of which were affixed thick strands of knotted, wiry rope. Positioning himself carefully, he raised the scourge high and brought it down hard on Gottschalk’s back. The slap of the lash reverberated throughout the hushed assembly.

The scarred skin on Joan’s back quivered. The flesh has its own memory, keener than the mind’s.

Brother Germar raised the scourge again and brought it down even harder. Gottschalk’s whole body shuddered, but he clamped his lips together, refusing to give Abbot Raban the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Again the scourge rose and fell, rose and fell, and still Gottschalk did not break.

After the usual seven lashes, Brother Germar lowered the scourge. Abbot Raban angrily signaled him to continue. With a look of surprise, Brother Germar obeyed.

Three more lashes, four, five, and then there was an awful crack as the scourge struck bone. Gottschalk threw back his head and screamed—a great, terrible, tearing cry from the center of his being. The appalling sound hung in the air, then subsided into a long, shuddering sob.

Abbot Raban nodded, satisfied, and signaled Brother Germar to stop. As Gottschalk was lifted and half-led, half-dragged from the hall, Joan caught a flash of white in the middle of his crimsoned back. It was one of Gottschalk’s ribs, and it had completely pierced his flesh.

THE infirmary was uncharactistically empty, for the day was warm and breezeless, and the old ones and the chronically ill had been taken outside for a touch of healing sun.

Brother Gottschalk lay prone on the infirmary bed, half conscious, his open wounds reddening the sheets. Brother Benjamin, the physician, bent over him, trying to staunch the bleeding with the aid of a few linen bandages, already completely saturated with blood. He looked up as Joan came in.

“Good. You are here. Hand me some bandages from the shelf.”

Joan hurried to comply. Brother Benjamin peeled off the old bandages, threw them to the ground, and applied the new. Within moments, they were soaked through.

“Help me to shift him,” Benjamin said. “The way he’s lying, that bone is still making mischief. We must get that rib back into place, or we’ll never stop the bleeding.”

Joan moved to the opposite side of the bed, skillfully positioning her hands so that one quick forward motion would draw the bone back into place.

“Easy, now,” Benjamin said. “Half sensible though he is, he’ll feel it sharp. On my mark, Brother. One, two, three!”

Joan pulled while Brother Benjamin pushed. There was a fresh outpouring of blood; then the bone slid beneath the gaping flesh.

“Deo, juva