"It all passed so quickly, all like a glare of lightning," said Hilda,
"and yet it seemed to me that Donatello had paused, while one might draw
a breath. But that look! Ah, Miriam, spare me. Need I tell more?"
"No more; there needs no more, Hilda," replied Miriam, bowing her head,
as if listening to a sentence of condemnation from a supreme tribunal.
"It is enough! You have satisfied my mind on a point where it was
greatly disturbed. Henceforward I shall be quiet. Thank you, Hilda."
She was on the point of departing, but turned back again from the
threshold.
"This is a terrible secret to be kept in a young girl's bosom," she
observed; "what will you do with it, my poor child?"
"Heaven help and guide me," answered Hilda, bursting into tears; "for
the burden of it crushes me to the earth! It seems a crime to know
of such a thing, and to keep it to myself. It knocks within my heart
continually, threatening, imploring, insisting to be let out! O my
mother!--my mother! Were she yet living, I would travel over land and
sea to tell her this dark secret, as I told all the little troubles of
my infancy. But I am alone--alone! Miriam, you were my dearest, only
friend. Advise me what to do."
This was a singular appeal, no doubt, from the stainless maiden to the
guilty woman, whom she had just banished from her heart forever. But
it bore striking testimony to the impression which Miriam's natural
uprightness and impulsive generosity had made on the friend who knew her
best; and it deeply comforted the poor criminal, by proving to her that
the bond between Hilda and herself was vital yet.
As far as she was able, Miriam at once responded to the girl's cry for
help.
"If I deemed it good for your peace of mind," she said, "to bear
testimony against me for this deed in the face of all the world, no
consideration of myself should weigh with me an instant. But I believe
that you would find no relief in such a course. What men call justice
lies chiefly in outward formalities, and has never the close application
and fitness that would be satisfactory to a soul like yours. I cannot be
fairly tried and judged before an earthly tribunal; and of this, Hilda,
you would perhaps become fatally conscious when it was too late. Roman
justice, above all things, is a byword. What have you to do with it?
Leave all such thoughts aside! Yet, Hilda, I would not have you keep my
secret imprisoned in your heart if it tries to leap out, and stings you,
like a wild, venomous thing, when you thrust it back again. Have you no
other friend, now that you have been forced to give me up?"