For a few minutes he glanced eagerly round the tent, in an agony of
bewilderment and despair. The conflicting interests of his duty towards
his sister, and his anxiety for Antonina's preservation, filled his
heart to distraction. A moment more he hesitated, and during that short
delay, the despotism of custom had yet power enough to prevail over the
promptings of pity. He called to the girl--withdrawing his arm which
had hitherto been her support,--'Go, have mercy on me, go!'
But she neither heeded nor heard him. She fell on her knees at the
woman's feet, and in a low moaning voice faltered out:--
'What have I done that I deserve to be slain? I never murdered your
children; I never yet saw a child but I loved it; if I had seen your
children, I should have loved them!'
'If I had preserved to this time the child that I saved from the
massacre, and you had approached him,' returned the woman fiercely, 'I
would have taught him to strike at you with his little hands! When you
spoke to him, he should have spat upon you for answer--even thus!'
Trembling, exhausted, terrified as she was, the girl's Roman blood
rushed over her pale cheeks as she felt the insult.
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