She waved her away with a queenly gesture, and turned her own face to the rock.  I watched Priscilla, wondering what judgment she would pass between Zenobia and Hollingsworth; how interpret his behavior, so as to reconcile it with true faith both towards her sister and herself; how compel her love for him to keep any terms whatever with her sisterly affection!  But, in truth, there was no such difficulty as I imagined.  Her engrossing love made it all clear.  Hollingsworth could have no fault.  That was the one principle at the centre of the universe.  And the doubtful guilt or possible integrity of other people, appearances, self-evident facts, the testimony of her own senses,—­even Hollingsworth’s self-accusation, had he volunteered it,—­ would have weighed not the value of a mote of thistledown on the other side.  So secure was she of his right, that she never thought of comparing it with another’s wrong, but left the latter to itself.

Hollingsworth drew her arm within his, and soon disappeared with her among the trees.  I cannot imagine how Zenobia knew when they were out of sight; she never glanced again towards them.  But, retaining a proud attitude so long as they might have thrown back a retiring look, they were no sooner departed,—­utterly departed,—­than she began slowly to sink down.  It was as if a great, invisible, irresistible weight were pressing her to the earth.  Settling upon her knees, she leaned her forehead against the rock, and sobbed convulsively; dry sobs they seemed to be, such as have nothing to do with tears.

XXVI.  ZENOBIA AND COVERDALE

Zenobia had entirely forgotten me.  She fancied herself alone with her great grief.  And had it been only a common pity that I felt for her,—­the pity that her proud nature would have repelled, as the one worst wrong which the world yet held in reserve,—­the sacredness and awfulness of the crisis might have impelled me to steal away silently, so that not a dry leaf should rustle under my feet.  I would have left her to struggle, in that solitude, with only the eye of God upon her.  But, so it happened, I never once dreamed of questioning my right to be there now, as I had questioned it just before, when I came so suddenly upon Hollingsworth and herself, in the passion of their recent debate.  It suits me not to explain what was the analogy that I saw or imagined between Zenobia’s situation and mine; nor, I believe, will the reader detect this one secret, hidden beneath many a revelation which perhaps concerned me less.  In simple truth, however, as Zenobia leaned her forehead against the rock, shaken with that tearless agony, it seemed to me that the self-same pang, with hardly mitigated torment, leaped thrilling from her heartstrings to my own.  Was it wrong, therefore, if I felt myself consecrated to the priesthood by sympathy like this, and called upon to minister to this woman’s affliction, so far as mortal could?