I told him how long I had known of their most natural love,
confessed my struggles, my defeat, and acknowledged to the full the
sin I had committed in marrying him in spite of what I knew. I
reminded him, too, of our covenant, of the beliefs and aspirations
we had shared, and implored him to accept his liberty.
"I know little of the laws," said I, "but if they refuse to part us,
why, we must part ourselves. If human justice is so far removed from
righteousness, why, we must rise above it, and never mind the world.
'Tis a wide place. Take her and make her happy where none knows. The
worst of my pain is past."
But Gabriel still insisted on the necessity of his death. "Your
dreams are wild!" he cried. "There's but one way. I have robbed you
of all you had, of husband and friend. If I die, you, at least, have
reparation. I have thought it well over; I am as calm as you. My
poems lie in ashes in the grate. My life is done."
We talked very long, very quietly, until the dawn peeped through the
cracks of the shutters. And at last he gave me his word that he
would live.
Having this promise, I rose.
"It is morning," said I; "we are not fit to talk further.
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