“Now, God be judge between us,” cried Zenobia, breaking into sudden passion, “which of us two has most mortally offended Him!  At least, I am a woman, with every fault, it may be, that a woman ever had,—­ weak, vain, unprincipled (like most of my sex; for our virtues, when we have any, are merely impulsive and intuitive), passionate, too, and pursuing my foolish and unattainable ends by indirect and cunning, though absurdly chosen means, as an hereditary bond-slave must; false, moreover, to the whole circle of good, in my reckless truth to the little good I saw before me,—­but still a woman!  A creature whom only a little change of earthly fortune, a little kinder smile of Him who sent me hither, and one true heart to encourage and direct me, might have made all that a woman can be!  But how is it with you?  Are you a man?  No; but a monster!  A cold, heartless, self-beginning and self-ending piece of mechanism!”

“With what, then, do you charge me!” asked Hollingsworth, aghast, and greatly disturbed by this attack.  “Show me one selfish end, in all I ever aimed at, and you may cut it out of my bosom with a knife!”

“It is all self!” answered Zenobia with still intenser bitterness.  “Nothing else; nothing but self, self, self!  The fiend, I doubt not, has made his choicest mirth of you these seven years past, and especially in the mad summer which we have spent together.  I see it now!  I am awake, disenchanted, disinthralled!  Self, self, self!  You have embodied yourself in a project.  You are a better masquerader than the witches and gypsies yonder; for your disguise is a self-deception.  See whither it has brought you!  First, you aimed a death-blow, and a treacherous one, at this scheme of a purer and higher life, which so many noble spirits had wrought out.  Then, because Coverdale could not be quite your slave, you threw him ruthlessly away.  And you took me, too, into your plan, as long as there was hope of my being available, and now fling me aside again, a broken tool!  But, foremost and blackest of your sins, you stifled down your inmost consciousness!—­you did a deadly wrong to your own heart!—­you were ready to sacrifice this girl, whom, if God ever visibly showed a purpose, He put into your charge, and through whom He was striving to redeem you!”

“This is a woman’s view,” said Hollingsworth, growing deadly pale,—­ “a woman’s, whose whole sphere of action is in the heart, and who can conceive of no higher nor wider one!”

“Be silent!” cried Zenobia imperiously.  “You know neither man nor woman!  The utmost that can be said in your behalf—­and because I would not be wholly despicable in my own eyes, but would fain excuse my wasted feelings, nor own it wholly a delusion, therefore I say it—­is, that a great and rich heart has been ruined in your breast.  Leave me, now.  You

have done with me, and I with you.  Farewell!”