“I!” said Andras.
In Marsa’s eyes was a sort of wild excitement, a longing for sacrifice, a thirst for martyrdom.
“Do I understand that you wish to enter a convent?” asked Andras, slowly.
“Yes, the strictest and gloomiest. And into that tomb I shall carry, with your condemnation and farewell, the bitter regret of my love, the weight of my remorse!”
The convent! The thought of such a fate for the woman he loved filled Andras Zilah with horror. He imagined the terrible scene of Marsa’s separation from the world; he could hear the voice of the officiating bishop casting the cruel words upon the living, like earth upon the dead; he could almost see the gleam of the scissors as they cut through her beautiful dark hair.
Kneeling before him, her eyes wet with tears, Marsa was as lovely in her sorrow as a Mater Dolorosa. All his love surged up in his heart, and a wild temptation assailed him to keep her beauty, and dispute with the convent this penitent absolved by remorse.
She knelt there repentant, weeping, wringing her hands, asking nothing but pardon—a word, a single word of pity—and the permission to bury herself forever from the world.
“So,” he said, abruptly, “the convent cell, the prison, does not terrify you?”
“Nothing terrifies me except your contempt.”
“You would live far from Paris, far from the world, far from everything?”