“Dear God,” he prayed, “let not the guiltless suffer for my guilt. Punish me to the top of my sin, but pity Sicily.”
XV
THE HUNTER’S VOICE
Out of the shadow-land at the back of the altar emerged a white figure, with a fair face and hair the color of flame. She moved unheard across the pavement of the place of sanctuary; unheard she pushed open the little golden wicket in the golden railing; unheard she noted the white rose where it lay upon the ground, and, picking it up, lifted it to her lips before she placed it in her girdle; unheard she moved to where Robert lay in his agony before the altar.
“Friend,” she whispered, softly.
Robert’s consciousness awoke from its dark dreams. He rose and faced the girl, naming her name with joy.
“Perpetua!”
Perpetua came close to him.