Oh, God
of Sacrifice, be not wroth at my deed of sacrifice and give me pardon,
give me life and peace, that in a time to come I may win the sight of
him for whom I die."
A somewhat heathenish prayer indeed, and far too full of human passion
for one about to leave the human shores. But, then--well, it was
Beatrice who prayed--Beatrice, who could realise no heaven beyond the
limits of her passion, who still thought more of her love than of saving
her own soul alive. Perhaps it found a home--perhaps, like her who
prayed it, it was lost upon the pitiless deep.
Then Beatrice prayed no more. Short was her time. See, there sank the
sun in glory; and there the great rollers swept along past the sullen
headland, where the undertow met wind and tide. She would think no more
of self; it was, it seemed to her, so small, this mendicant calling on
the Unseen, not for others, but for self: aid for self, well-being for
self, salvation for self--this doing of good that good might come to
self. She had made her prayer, and if she prayed again it should be for
Geoffrey, that he might prosper and be happy--that he might forgive the
trouble her love had brought into his life.
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