One
instant more and he turned and fled through the trees, towards San
Gregorio, his dog galloping heavily after him.
Regina's hands fell by her sides, and the folds of her cloak closed
together and hung straight down. She stared into the shadowy distance a
moment after her father, and saw his figure twice in the light where the
trees were wider apart, before he disappeared altogether. She looked
down and saw the knife at her feet, and she picked it up and felt the
point. It was as sharp as a needle, for Ercole had whetted it often
since he had sat by the gate in the early morning last August. It was
wet, for the grass under the trees had not dried since the rain.
She felt the point and edge with her hand, and sighed. It would have
been better to have felt it in her breast, but she would not take her
own life. She was not afraid to do it, and her young hand would have
been strong enough and sure enough to do it quickly. It was not the
thought of the pain that made her close the knife; it was the fear of
hell. Nothing she had done in her life seemed very bad to her, because
it had all been for Marcello. If Ercole had killed her, she thought that
God would have forgiven her after a time. But if she killed herself she
would instantly be seized by devils and thrust into real flames, to
burn for ever, without the slightest chance of forgiveness. She had been
taught that, and she believed it, and the thought of the fire made her
shut the clasp-knife and slip it into her dress with a sigh.
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