Jane had the child's worship. Would she lose
that, too? And if she did, what then would be left? Conscience
thundered at her that there was left her religion. Conscience
thundered that she should be grateful on her knees for this
baptism of fire; that through misfortune, sacrifice, and
suffering her soul might be fused pure gold. But the old,
spontaneous, rapturous spirit no more exalted her. She wanted to
be a woman--not a martyr. Like the saint of old who mortified his
flesh, Jane Withersteen had in her the temper for heroic
martyrdom, if by sacrificing herself she could save the souls of
others. But here the damnable verdict blistered her that the more
she sacrificed herself the blacker grew the souls of her
churchmen. There was something terribly wrong with her soul,
something terribly wrong with her churchmen and her religion. In
the whirling gulf of her thought there was yet one shining light
to guide her, to sustain her in her hope; and it was that,
despite her errors and her frailties and her blindness, she had
one absolute and unfaltering hold on ultimate and supreme
justice. That was love. "Love your enemies as yourself!" was a
divine word, entirely free from any church or creed.
Jane's meditations were disturbed by Lassiter's soft, tinkling
step in the court. Always he wore the clinking spurs. Always he
was in readiness to ride. She passed out and called him into the
huge, dim hall.
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