There was a choking sensation in his throat and tears in his eyes. Transport the blackest soul from among the damned in Hell, wash it white of its sins and seat it upon one of the glorious thrones of Heaven,—such were the emotions that surged through his soul. At last he found his tongue.
"Dearest," he said, "bethink yourself of what you say! You are still his wife—and the Church grants no severance of the bonds that have united two for better or worse."
"Then shall we see the Holy Father. He is just and he will be merciful. Will you take me, Tristan, no matter to what odd shifts a cruel Fortune may drive us? Will you take me?"
She held his face between her palms and forced his eyes to meet her eyes.
"Will you take me, Tristan?" she said again.
"Hellayne—"
It was all he could say.
Then a great sadness overwhelmed him, a tide that swept the frail bark of happiness high and dry upon the shores of black despair.
"To-morrow, Hellayne, you will be what you were yesterday."
"I have thought of that," she said, a slight flutter in her tone. "But—Hellayne is dead.—We must so dispose that they will let her rest in peace."—