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.

"I would that I could help you," he whispered. "But what can I do
among all these fiends?"

"It is hard to die thus--so hard."

"Savitre, I am more compassionate than you think, and I have here a
draught which will send you into a deep sleep. The pain of death will
thus be saved you," Konmia broke in severely, holding a vessel toward
the girl.

"No, no!" Savitre shrieked, pushing the potent drink away. "I cannot!
Think how awful to awaken with the cruel flames wreathing round my
body, and my cries for help useless, deadened by the yells of those
people. I cannot--I will not die!"