And
after a dreadful hesitation he lowered his gaze and looked.
Yes, it was Camilla! He had known always that it would be Camilla.
The pale repose of death only emphasized the proud and splendid beauty
of that head, with its shut eyes, its mouth firmly closed in a faint
smile, and its glorious hair surrounded by all the white frippery of the
shroud. Here lay the mortal part of the incomparable creature who had
been coveted by three men and won by one--for a few brief days'
possession. Here lay the repository of Ravengar's secrets, the grave of
Hugo's happiness, the dead mate of Tudor's desire. Here lay the eternal
woman, symbol of all beauty and all charm, victimized by her own
loveliness. For if she had not been lovely, thought Hugo, if the curves
of her cheek and her nostrils and the colour of her skin had been ever
so slightly different, the world might have contained one widower, one
ruined heart, and one murderer the less that night.
He did not doubt, he could not doubt, after Ravengar's threats, that she
had been murdered. And yet he was not angry then. He did not feel a
great grief. He was conscious of no sensation save a numbed and desolate
awe. He had not begun to feel. Ledging the lid crossways on the coffin,
he placed his hand gently upon Camilla's brow.
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