She thought of all the saints, whose lives she had been reading. Her young heart quivered at the thought of their sacrifices, their martyrdoms, their sense of duty.
An exaltation, morbid perhaps, superstitious and overwhelming, took possession of her mind; also, perhaps, far back in the innermost recesses of her heart, a pride in her own importance, her mission in life, her individuality: for she was a girl after all, a mere child, about to become a woman.
But the old Duc was waxing impatient.
"Surely you do not hesitate, Juliette, with your dead brother's body clamouring mutely for revenge? You, the only Marny left now!—for from this day I too shall be as dead."
"No, father," said the young girl in an awed whisper, "I do not hesitate. I will swear, just as you bid me."
"Repeat the words after me, my child."
"Yes, father."
"Before the face of Almighty God, who sees and hears me ..."
"Before the face of Almighty God, who sees and hears me," repeated Juliette firmly.
"I swear that I will seek out Paul Déroulède."