"It is bright again--they are calling me--mother! Hold me up--I cannot breathe."
Corte sank on his knees with his head between his hands, and passing my arm round the poor creature I lifted her up, and the spirit passed. In the room there was now a silence which was broken by a heart-rending sob from Corte. He staggered to his feet with despair on his face.
"She said forgive!" he exclaimed. "Man, you have seen an angel die. This is the work of a priest, of a pontiff, of him who calls himself Vicar of Christ! Go now, and leave me with my dead."
I took his hand, and pressing it, turned to the door. As I closed it behind me, I saw Corte bending over the still face of his child, and the little dog, throwing up its head, howled piteously.
I had looked upon death before; I had seen the plague strike down its victims in an hour; I had been in the hell of a sacked town, when men, women, and children, were given to the sword. On the breach at Arx Sismundea, dead, dying and wounded, were piled breast high, when we stormed our way, through the fog of battle, into Malatesta's stronghold. Stricken down at San Miniato, I saw, in the dim night, the death hunters at their fearful trade, and heard the dull blows of their daggers, as they murdered some helpless wretch, sometimes for the prize of a tag of gold lace, sometimes for the sheer pleasure of slaughter. Lying unable to move, by good luck concealed in a hollow, amidst grass which stood a yard high, I saw a man killed not ten feet from me. He rose to his elbow as the fiends approached, and called for water. But it was not water he got. How he struggled! He cried for mercy, and I can still see the wretches as they held him down. A foul-looking hag placed her knees on his chest, she looked towards the sky for a moment, as if invoking a spirit to a sacrifice, and the moonlight shone on a face that was hardly human. Then she stooped down, and with a relentless hand, plunged the knife she held into her victim's throat. But all this, which should have hardened my heart, did not affect me as the scene I had just quitted. After all, what I had passed through was done when the blood was high with excitement. Here, however, was another thing. I had watched the end of a being beautiful and pure, who was born to adorn life, and yet what was her story? Fallen into the hands of an incarnate devil, outraged, and then cast forth blinded, to die like a reptile! It was too horrible! Surely God must have slept whilst this was done. Surely the after life ought to be to her, in an inverse proportion to her sufferings on earth. But why any such infliction on one so helpless? Mystery of mysteries, and I cannot solve it. And yet she was able to forgive. At the last she could condone. What were my wrongs to those she had endured? After all I had health, strength, and the world was wide. Why waste my time in running after the morbid shadow of revenge? If I got it, would it satisfy? Would it heal my wounds! Thinking in this way, I called to mind a sermon of the Prior of St. Mark's--I heard when last in Florence. I came in the suite of Paolo Vitelli ag Citta del Castello, and at the time Savonarola had left the Duomo, and was preaching at St. Mark's. His subject was forgiveness, and his text, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," came back to me with a vivid force. I rose from my seat and paced the room, my whole soul was on the cross; I had all but resolved to forego my scheme of revenge, when I heard a knock at the door. At first I did not answer, but it was repeated.