She paddled on; the sound of that death-knell shook her nerves, and made her feel faint and weak.  Oh, it would have been easier had she been as she was a year ago, before she learned to love, and hand in hand had seen faith and hope re-arise from the depths of her stirred soul.  Then being but a heathen, she could have met her end with all a heathen’s strength, knowing what she lost, and believing, too, that she would find but sleep.  And now it was otherwise, for in her heart she did not believe that she was about utterly to perish.  What, could the body live on in a thousand forms, changed indeed but indestructible and immortal, while the spiritual part, with all its hopes and loves and fears, melted into nothingness?  It could not be; surely on some new shore she should once again greet her love.  And if it was not, how would they meet her in that under world, coming self-murdered, her life-blood on her hands?  Would her mother turn away from her? and the little brother, whom she had loved, would he reject her?  And what Voice of Doom might strike her into everlasting hopelessness?

But, be the sin what it might, yet would she sin it for the sake of Geoffrey; ay, even if she must reap a harvest of eternal woe.  She bent her head and prayed.  “Oh, Power, that art above, from whom I come, to whom I go, have mercy on me!  Oh, Spirit, if indeed thy name is Love, weigh my love in thy balance, and let it lift the scale of sin.  Oh, God of Sacrifice, be not wroth at my deed of sacrifice and give me pardon, give me life and peace, that in a time to come I may win the sight of him for whom I die.”

A somewhat heathenish prayer indeed, and far too full of human passion for one about to leave the human shores.  But, then—­well, it was Beatrice who prayed—­Beatrice, who could realise no heaven beyond the limits of her passion, who still thought more of her love than of saving her own soul alive.  Perhaps it found a home—­perhaps, like her who prayed it, it was lost upon the pitiless deep.

Then Beatrice prayed no more.  Short was her time.  See, there sank the sun in glory; and there the great rollers swept along past the sullen headland, where the undertow met wind and tide.  She would think no more of self; it was, it seemed to her, so small, this mendicant calling on the Unseen, not for others, but for self:  aid for self, well-being for self, salvation for self—­this doing of good that good might come to self.  She had made her prayer, and if she prayed again it should be for Geoffrey, that he might prosper and be happy—­that he might forgive the trouble her love had brought into his life.  That he might forget her she could not pray.  She had prayed her prayer and said her say, and it was done with.  Let her be judged as it seemed good to Those who judge!  Now she would fix her thoughts upon her love, and by its strength would she triumph over the bitterness of death.  Her eyes flashed and her breast heaved:  further out to sea, further yet—­she would meet those rollers a knot or more from the point of the headland, that no record might remain.