“Horrible! horrible! and—what more, Jasper?”
“Have you not, indeed, heard the tale?”
“Indeed, no. I pray you tell me, for you have moved me very deeply.”
“It is very moving. The boy had a sister—the loveliest creature, it is said, that trod the soil of England, scarce seventeen years of age, a very paragon of grace and purity and beauty. They two were alone in the world—parents, kinsfolk, friends, they had none. They had none to love but one another, even as we, my Theresa; and they did love—how, you may judge. The girl threw herself at the butcher’s feet, and implored her brother’s pardon.”
“Go on, go on, Jasper!” cried the young wife, excited almost beyond the power of restraining her emotions by the dreadful interest of his tale, “and, for once, he granted it?”
“And, for once, as you say, he granted it. But upon one condition.”
“And that was—?”
“And that was, that the young girl should make a sacrifice—an awful sacrifice—should submit, in a word, to be a martyr for her brother’s sake.”
“To die for him—and she died! Of course, she died to save him; that were no sacrifice, none, Jasper—I say none! Why any woman would have done that!”
“It was not to die for him—it was to sacrifice herself—herself—for she was lovely, as I told you—to the butcher.”