She would face the last agonies of death when the
bloom of her youthful strength and beauty was but opening as a rose in
June. She would do more, she would brave the threatened vengeance of the
most High, coming before Him a self murderess, and with but one plea for
pity--that she loved so well: _quia multum amavit_. Yes, she would do
all this, would leave the warm world in the dawning summer of her days,
and alone go out into the dark--alone would face those visions which
might come--those Shapes of terror, and those Things of fear, that
perchance may wait for sinful human kind. Alone she would go--oh, hand
in hand with him it had been easy, but this must not be. The door of
utter darkness would swing to behind her, and who could say if in time
to come it should open to Geoffrey's following feet, or if he might ever
find the path that she had trod. It must be done, it should be done!
Beatrice rose from her seat with bright eyes and quick-coming breath,
and swore before God, if God there were, that she would do it, trusting
to Him for pardon and for pity, or failing these--for sleep.
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