“And I am lost!” she cried at last. “One holds my soul, and one my heart! May not my body die? Oh, say that it is right—that I may die!”

“Die? Die—when you may yet undo?”

“Undo?”

“Undo and do. Undo the wrong and do the right.”

“I cannot. The wrong is past undoing—and I am past doing right.”

“Do not blaspheme—go! Do it.”

“What?”

“Call her—that other woman—Beatrice. Bring her to him, and him to her.”

“And see them meet!”

She covered her face with her hands, and one short moan escaped her lips.