Still my thoughts were, Was it a sacrilege? It was
his _magnum opus_, his last work that he was so proud of, that was to
have been finished on the awful morrow--that never came. Will he rise
up in his grave and curse me or bless me? The thought will haunt
me to death, but Sadi and El Shaykh el Nafzawih, who were pagans,
begged pardon of God and prayed not to be cast into hell fire for
having written them, and implored their friends to pray for them to
the Lord, that He would have mercy on them. And then I said, 'Not
only not for six thousand guineas, but not for six million guineas
will I risk it.' Sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling,
I burnt sheet after sheet, until the whole of the volumes were
consumed."[1]
As to the act itself I am not called upon to express any opinion. But
there can be no two opinions among fair-minded people as to the heroism,
the purity, and the sublime self-sacrifice of the motives which prompted
Lady Burton to this deed. Absolutely devoted to her husband and his
interests as she had been in his lifetime, she was equally jealous of his
honour now that he was dead. Nothing must tarnish the brightness of his
good name. It was this thought, above all others, which led her to burn
_The Scented Garden_. For this act the vials of misrepresentation and
abuse were poured on Lady Burton's head. She was accused of the "bigotry
of a torquemada, the vandalism of a John Knox.
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