Corona stood still, holding the curtain in her hand.

She was a brave woman, but she turned pale--not hesitating, she said to herself, but pausing.

Then, suddenly, a great scorn of herself arose in her.

Was it worthy of her even to pause in doing right?
The nobility of her courage cried loudly to her to go in and do the thing most worthy: her hand lifted the heavy leathern apron, and she entered the church.
The air within was heavy and moist, and the grey light fell coldly through the tall windows.

Corona shuddered, and drew her furs more closely about her as she passed up the aisle to the door of the sacristy.
She found the monk she sought, and she made her confession.
"Padre mio," she said at last, when the good man thought she had finished--"Padre mio, I am a very miserable woman." She hid her dark face in her ungloved hands, and one by one the crystal tears welled from her eyes and trickled down upon her small fingers and upon the worn black wood of the confessional.
"My daughter," said the good monk, "I will pray for you, others will pray for you--but before all things, you must pray for yourself.