“We women are all fools; the men cheat us into bondage. Once I was clean and pure. Well, well, what if I have an old heart in a young body?”
Rosamunde held her peace for the moment. The cries had ceased in the court below; the babel of mad voices had given place to silence.
“Have you thought of death, Miriam?”
The Jewess started, stared up into Rosamunde’s face. It was white and hard, the eyes full of a passionate pessimism.
“Death, sister!”
“As a Roman woman would have died. Ah, my God, is it then a sin to end such shame?”
Miriam struggled to her knees, her arms thrust over Rosamunde’s shoulders. The warm Jewish blood in her had taken fire of a sudden. Her pale face looked into Rosamunde’s, her dark eyes glittered with an earnestness that was almost super-natural.
“Sister, what words are these?”
“Shame or death—I halt between the two.”
“Death, but how?”