into the grave. Not a sound was heard but the soft rustling of the leaves
overhead, for this scene took place in the open ground above the Sablon,
formerly mentioned as the scene of some earlier executions; and Beatrice's
grave was dug at the very foot of the tree, where the Jews, in 1370, had
expiated their imputed sacrilege.

Not a murmur, not a movement betrayed an instant's shrinking from her fate,
as the cold heap of clay covered Beatrice to the very neck. Her face was
still above ground, and the infuriated bigot, whose word was to save her
or stifle her voice for ever, once more approached. He knelt beside her
thrust his crucifix close to her still straining eyes, and in accents that
faltered from rage, he cried out--

"Dost thou still dare refuse? Death is on thy lips--hell gapes for
thee!--Wretched woman, say but one word--kiss the blessed relic, and thou
art saved."

"There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet!" said Beatrice, in
hollow and broken accents.

"It is done! Cover her quick! Let her perish in eternal fire!" cried the
inquisitor.

The executioners heaped the earth still higher--the head was covered
in--and only then a smothered scream burst upwards, while the struggles of
natural agony shook the mound to and fro.--Still the legal and consecrated
murderers went on, with trembling hands and quaking hearts; but as they
hastily closed their work, a deep and heavy groan came upon the air from a
not distant part of the waste ground; and the group looking round in
guilty terror, saw a man close wrapped in a cloak, but struggling with