A poignant pause ensued; the body of hatred strained and trembled; a cry issued from it; and, lo! out of the husk of the Pythoness, a cracked and scaly mask, came the soul of Molly Bramble. And the next instant the two poor creatures, as once before, were weeping and rocking in one another’s arms. They mingled their tears and speech incoherently.
“Poor soul! O, what a life! I deserve to be whipped, and more, for having helped it to its misery. But, there! we each struck for our own.”
“Did you help to it? Why not? he cursed you for my sake!—and I would have let him die. No, no—I didn’t mean to; but to go to him—myself!”
“There,—I understand. You’ve always held by Providence, poor fond simple thing!”
“Haven’t you? You’ve not changed in all these years—only to grow more beautiful. O, sister! tell me you’ve been good!”
“I’ve never shamed my love—a bitter struggle not to. I’ll say no more.”
“Take the order—quick. You may save him yet—his soul most of all. When he hears—My God! You’ll betray my Louis!”
“Not us! What’s a sin or two charged falsely against my Cherry! He’s known a’ many such; and laughed at them. I must get a rope.”
“It’s here—it’s waiting for you.”
“O, you dear woman!”