“Beareth all things, endureth all things.”

Where have I heard those words?  They are in the Bible; the precept of charity.  What has that to do with me?  Nothing.  I heard the words in my dreams somewhere.  A white-faced man said them, a white-faced man with pure eyes.  To me?—­no, no, not to me; to a girl it was—­an ignorant, innocent girl, and she accepted them as an eternal, unqualified law.  Let her bear but half that I have borne, let her endure but one-tenth of what I have endured, and then if she dare let her speak in judgment against me.

Softly now; I must draw the heavy coverings away, and bare his breast to the stroke,—­the stroke that shall free me.  I know well where to plant it; I have learned that from the old lady’s Italian.  Did he guess why I questioned him so closely of the surest, straightest road to a man’s heart?  No matter, he cannot hinder me now.  Gently!  Ah!  I have disturbed him.  He moves, mutters in his sleep, throws out his arm.  Down; down; crouching behind the curtain.  Heavens! if he wakes and sees me, he will kill me.  No! alas! if only he would.  I would kiss the hand that he struck me with; but he is too cruel for that.  He will imagine some new and more hellish torture to punish me with.  But the knife!  I have got that; he shall never touch me living again. . . .  He is quieter now.  I hear his breath, hoarse and heavy as a wild beast’s panting.  He draws it more evenly, more deeply.  The danger is past.  Thank God!

God!  What have I to do with Him?  A God of Judgment.  Ha, ha!  Hell cannot frighten me; it will not be worse than earth.  Only he will be there too.  Not with him, not with him,—­send me to the lowest circle of torment, but not with him.  There, his breast is bare now.  Is the knife sharp?  Yes; and the blade is strong enough.  Now let me strike—­myself afterwards if need be, but him first.  Is it the devil that prompts me?  Then the devil is my friend, and the friend of the world.  No.  God is a God of love.  He cannot wish such a man to live.  He made him, but the devil spoilt him; and let the devil have his handiwork back again.  It has served him long enough here; and its last service shall be to make me a murderess.

How the moonlight gleams from the blade as my arm swings up and back:  with how close a grasp the rough hilt draws my fingers round it.  Now.

A murderess?

Wait a moment.  A moment may make me free; a moment may make me—­ that!

Wait.

Hand and dagger droop again.  His life has dragged its slime over my soul; shall his death poison it with a fouler corruption still?

“My own soul’s warden.”

What was that?  Dream memories again.

“Resist, strive, endure.”