Her heart was proud and indignant no longer; it had grown numbed. The air from the sea felt cold.
"I am helpless, signore," she murmured; "I do not know what the cause is. I do not know what justification you have for taking this man's life."
He did not answer that. He said,
"Perhaps, indeed, it is not those who are called on to sacrifice their life for the general good who suffer most. They can console themselves with thinking of the result. It is their friends—those dearest to them—who suffer, and who many a time would no doubt be glad to become their substitutes. It is true that we—that is, that many associations—recognize the principle of the vicarious performance of duties and punishments; but not any one yet has permitted a woman to become substitute for a man."
"What made you think of that, signore?" she asked, regarding him.
"I have known some cases," he said, evasively, "where such an offer, I think, would have been made."
"It could not be accepted?"
"Oh no."
"Not even by the power that is the greatest in Europe?" she said, bitterly—"that is invincible and all-generous? Oh, signore, you are too modest in your pretensions! And the Berezolyis—they have done nothing, then, in former days to entitle them to consideration; they are but as anybody in the crowd who might come forward and intercede for a friend; they have no old associates, then, and companions in this Society, that they cannot have this one thing granted them—that they cannot get this one man's life spared to him! Signore, your representatives mistake your powers; more than that, they mistake the strength of your memory, and your friendship!"