Page:Salem - a tale of the seventeenth century (IA taleseventeenth00derbrich).pdf/307

 The unhappy prisoner, who though worn and pallid with the rigorous confinement, which told fearfully upon her active nature, used to sun and air and unlimited liberty of motion, had borne it uncomplainingly, had made but one request—and that, alas! could not be complied with. She had prayed that Alice might be kept away from her on that last solemn occasion. She had felt when she parted from her darling the night before, with mingling tears, blessings, and caresses, and sent her from her, that the worst of death was over, and she begged that that bitter agony might not be renewed.

But Alice would not be thus kept away. She counted as a miser does his treasure every moment that remained to her of that precious life, although she, too, well knew that every moment was a renewed anguish. She could not be kept back except by actual violence, and that no one had the authority or the heart to use. She was early at the prison doors, and would be admitted. But over those last sad moments we must drop the veil of silence—they are too sacred for words.