"I would even bear the weight of it, if it be right," she said, "though rest were sweeter."
"Thou wouldst be free, perchance, to seek thy home in Venice?"
"Nay, nay!" she exclaimed, shrinking from him—"never Venice again—since she hath sent me hither, knowing all, and told me not. I cannot go back to Venice!"
He pondered gravely.
"Then what is thy will, my daughter?"
"To do the right!" she cried vehemently; "out of my own great sorrow to expiate the wrong! May it not be, my Father, if I shrink not from the right at any cost?"
"I will consider," he said, "since thy will is strong for this sacrifice."
"Sacrifice!" she cried, in her amazement breaking all reserve. "Oh, Father! To call this 'sacrifice,' when the very light of life is gone from me! He was so beautiful and gracious—with such a light in his eyes—and I thought—oh, I thought we were so happy! And now—oh, God, it breaks my heart—I loved him!"
"Daughter——"
"May not the suffering of one atone for another's sin?" she questioned feverishly.