Lianor and Panteleone, watching from their hiding-place the strange
preparations, now saw a girl, very young and beautiful, but weeping
bitterly, being dragged toward the pile by a tall, hard-looking woman.
"Come!" she cried, in loud, ringing tones, "now is the time to uphold
the honor of your family, and show your courage!"
With a shudder the girl drew back, and clasping her hands piteously
together, said:
"Why should I thus sacrifice my young life to the cruelty of your
customs? I cannot endure the thought of being burnt alive--it is too
horrible!"
"It is your duty! A widow must follow her husband in death," coldly.
The youthful widow burst into passionate weeping, and gave an agonized
glance around at the vindictive faces; not one among that multitude,
she thought, felt pity for the girl who was condemned to so horrible a
fate.
She was mistaken, and a second gaze revealed a young boy, not more
than fifteen, who was quietly sobbing, an expression of deep anguish
on his face.
"Satzavan, my poor brother, you also have come to witness my painful
end!"
The boy went toward her, and wound his arms around her slim waist,
drawing the dark head onto his shoulder.
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