Then she tried to think whether she had ever heard of any case in which the saint had saved one who had--who had done the thing which she was now about to do.

She was almost sure that she had never heard of such a case as that.

But, then, was there not something special in her own case?
Was not her suffering so great, her condition so piteous, that the saint would be driven to compassion in spite of the greatness of her sin?
Would he not know that she was punishing the Jew by the only punishment with which she could reach him?
She looked up into the saint's wan face, and fancied that no eyes were ever so piteous, no brow ever so laden with the deep suffering of compassion.

But would this punishment reach the heart of Anton Trendellsohn?
Would he care for it?
When he should hear that she had--destroyed her own life because she could not endure the cruelty of his suspicion, would the tidings make him unhappy?
When last they had been together he had told her, with all that energy which he knew so well how to put into his words, that her love was necessary to his happiness.

"I will never release you from your promises," he had said, when she offered to give him back his troth because of the ill-will of his people.