The priest rose and stood before her. There were tears in his eyes.
“Poor woman!” he said. “Poor woman!”
Honora’s face convulsed, but she shut her lips resolutely and tapped the floor with her foot.
“There is pardon and peace in the Church,” he continued softly; “and not only for the sake of that poor girl at Sing Sing, battling to-night with horror and terror, sleepless, listening to the solemn tramp of the death watch, counting the hours that are marching her to that hideous death, but for the future peace of your own soul, speak out and save her. Think of the years of torment, of remorse, when you will not have the excitement of the present, the pressure of your wrongs to sustain you. Speak out, and I will give you absolution, and your soul shall know peace.”
But Honora threw back her head and laughed.
“No! No!” she said. “I am not so weak as that. I have no intention of going to pieces at the last moment. It is only her death that will give me peace.”
He bent his long body backward, drawing himself up to his full imposing height.
“And have you thought of what will be the penalty?” he said, in a low voice, and with an intonation that was almost a chant.
She shuddered, but dragged her eyes away.
“I don’t care!” she said passionately. “I don’t care!”