"But not now; not yet," she murmured to herself. "To-night, at least,
there shall be no remorse!"
Wandering without a purpose, it so chanced that they turned into a
street, at one extremity of which stood Hilda's tower. There was a
light in her high chamber; a light, too, at the Virgin's shrine; and the
glimmer of these two was the loftiest light beneath the stars. Miriam
drew Donatello's arm, to make him stop, and while they stood at some
distance looking at Hilda's window, they beheld her approach and throw
it open. She leaned far forth, and extended her clasped hands towards
the sky.
"The good, pure child! She is praying, Donatello," said Miriam, with a
kind of simple joy at witnessing the devoutness of her friend. Then her
own sin rushed upon her, and she shouted, with the rich strength of her
voice, "Pray for us, Hilda; we need it!"
Whether Hilda heard and recognized the voice we cannot tell. The window
was immediately closed, and her form disappeared from behind the snowy
curtain. Miriam felt this to be a token that the cry of her condemned
spirit was shut out of heaven.