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 my children—who hast murdered the offspring of my vassals.” Raising herself upwards, and, at the same time, casting on him a glance that froze him to the spot with dread, she replied: “It is not I who have murdered them:—I was obliged to pamper myself with warm youthful blood, in order that I might satisfy thy furious desires—thou art the murderer!”—These dreadful words summoned, before Walter’s terrified conscience, the threatening shades of all those who had thus perished; while despair choaked his voice. “Why,” continued she, in a tone that increased his horror, “why dost thou make mouths at me like a puppet? Thou who hadst the courage to love the dead—to take into thy bed, one who had been sleeping in the grave, the bed-fellow of the worm—who hast clasped in thy lustful arms, the corruption of the tomb—dost thou, unhallowed as thou art, now raise this hideous cry for the sacrifice of a few lives?—They are but leaves swept from their branches by a storm.—Come, chase these ideot fancies, and taste the bliss thou hast so dearly purchased.” So saying, she.