But the anguish
and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the
cup of sorrow to her lips.
Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it:
the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook
in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the
room, followed by her brother.
And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her,
forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her
heart. . . her youth was gone.
And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the
ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death.
But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to
woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own
Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And
she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black
curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from
the breast.....
Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the
lair, and tied her to a tree.
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