Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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