It was that of a mild angel, steadfast, grave, hued like fire, acquainted with grief.

'O God-fraught! O saint in the battle! O dipped in the flame! Jehane, Jehane, Jehane! Quicken me!' So he cried in anguish of spirit.
'Quicken thee, Richard ?' she said.

'Nay, but thou art quick, my King.
The Cross hath made thee quick; thou hast given more than I.' 'I will give all by thy direction,' he said, 'for I know that thou wilt save my honour.' 'Trust me there,' said Jehane, and let him kiss her cheek.
She got a great hold upon him by these means.

Quick with the Holy Ghost or not, there was no doubting the quickness of his mind.

Here Jehane's wit had not played her false; he read her whole meaning; she never let go the footing she had gained, but in all her commerce with him walked a saint, a maid ravished only by a great thought.