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She was not so pale that the clearness of her complexion could not be
seen, and the brightness of the sun made her vail quite transparent. Her
eyes were seen to be of a soft gray; her brown hair lay smoothly upon a
full, square forehead; the contour of her face was comely, but her teeth
had the imperfectness of those of most southern women, being few and
irregular. Until the lips were opened she did not reveal them. Her
figure was not quite full enough to be denominated buxom, yet had all
the promise of venerable old age, had nature been permitted its due
course. She was of the medium height, and modest--as what woman would
not be under such searching survey? At first she was very feeble, and
leaned her head upon alternate sides of her arm-chair in nervous spasms;
but now and then, when a sort of wail just issued from her lips, the
priest placed before her the crucifix to lull her fearful spirit. All
the while the good fathers Wigett and Walter murmured their low, tender
cadences, and now and then the woman's face lost its deadly fear, and
took a bold, cognizable survey of the spectators. She wore a robe of
dark woolen, no collar, and common shoes of black listing. Her general
expression was that of acute suffering, vanishing at times as if by the
conjuration of her pride, and again returning in a paroxysm as she
looked at the dreadful rope dangling before her. This woman, to whom,
the priests have made their industrious moan, holding up the effigy of
Christ when their own appeals became of no avail, perched there in the
lofty air, counting her breaths, counting the winkfuls of light,
counting the final wrestles of her breaking heart, had been the belle of
her section, and many good men had courted her hand. She had led a
pleasant life, and children had been born to her--who shared her
mediocre ambition and the invincibility of her will. If the charge of
her guilt were proven, she was the Lady Macbeth of the west.
But women know nothing of consequences. She alone of all her sex stands
now in this thrilled and ghastly perspective, and in immediate
association with three creatures in whose company it is no fame to die:
a little crying boy, a greasy unkempt sniveller, and a confessed
desperado. Her base and fugitive son, to know the infamy of his
cowardice and die of his shame, should have seen his mother writhing in
her seat upon the throne his wickedness established for her.
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