And at this
recollection his brain whirled.
Even were it permitted him ever to behold her again, how could he
stand before her? Must she not abhor him, as one whose baseness
surpassed all she had thought possible in the vilest slave? Jealousy
was pardonable; in its rage, a man might slay and be forgiven. But
for the reproach with which he had smitten her--her, pure and
innocent--there could be no forgiveness. It was an act of infamy,
branding him for ever.
Thoughts such as these intermingled with his reading of the Psalms
of penitence. Ever and again grief overwhelmed him, and he wept
bitterly. At the hour of the evening meal, he would willingly have
remained in his cell, to fast and mourn alone; but this, he felt,
would have been to shirk part of his penance; for, though the
brothers knew not of his sin, he could not meet their eyes for
shame, and such humiliation must needs be salutary. This evening
other guests sat at the abbot's table, and he shrank from their
notice, for though they were but men of humble estate, pilgrims from
Lucania, he felt debased before them.
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