"Satzavan, my poor brother, you also have come to witness my painful end!"
The boy went toward her, and wound his arms around her slim waist, drawing the dark head onto his shoulder.
"I would that I could help you," he whispered. "But what can I do among all these fiends?"
"It is hard to die thus—so hard."
"Savitre, I am more compassionate than you think, and I have here a draught which will send you into a deep sleep. The pain of death will thus be saved you," Konmia broke in severely, holding a vessel toward the girl.
"No, no!" Savitre shrieked, pushing the potent drink away. "I cannot! Think how awful to awaken with the cruel flames wreathing round my body, and my cries for help useless, deadened by the yells of those people. I cannot—I will not die!"
Satzavan, deathly white, and with quivering features, drew her shuddering frame closer to him, and led her into the temple.
"Leave us for a moment, I implore you," he said, turning to his aunt. "She loves me, and I may perhaps reconcile her to her fate."
"You are the head of your family; I trust to you to bring her to reason—to save the honor of a name until now without blemish," Konmia replied, and placing the poisonous flask in Satzavan's hand, she left them alone in the temple.
"Quick, Savitre; we will drink this draught together, and when they seek you, they will find us both cold in death."