“I am not in your power. I am young, and I love life, and would be glad to grow old in the world’s way. But I would rather die than live with any stain of shame.”
Robert retorted swiftly, mocking her, yet conscious, against his will, of unfamiliar admiration of opposition to his will.
“You foolish ermine, Death’s angel does not come at a girl’s call.”
“She who finds life hateful will find the means to end it,” Perpetua said, proudly.
“Is this your virtue?” Robert jeered. “May meekness do self-murder?”
Perpetua lifted her tearless eyes towards the painted roof, fretted with pagan emblems.
“When I appear before the court of Heaven,” she answered, quietly, “I think I will find pardon for that sin.”
All manner of strange thoughts were contending for the supremacy of Robert’s reason. Was that an aureole, strangely luminous, about her head, or only the wealth of her red hair? Was she, indeed, as brave as her brave phrases?
“I take you at your word,” he said, more mildly. “Here is that which can set you free from all of us.”