reasoned:

"Of course, I am young and could have lived for a long time. But--"

And as a candle darkens in the glare of the rising sun, so her youth
and her life seemed dull and dark compared to that great and
resplendent radiance which would shine above her simple head. There
was no justification.

But perhaps that peculiar something which she bore in her
soul-boundless love, boundless eagerness to do great deeds, her
boundless contempt for herself-was a justification in itself. She felt
that she was really not to blame that she was hindered from doing the
things she could have done, which she had wished to do-that she had
been smitten upon the threshold of the temple, at the foot of the
altar.

But if that were so, if a person is appreciated not only for what he
has done, but also for what he had intended to do-then-then she was
worthy of the crown of the martyr!

"Is it possible?" thought Musya bashfully. "Is it possible that I am
worthy of it? That I deserve that people should weep for me, should be
agitated over my fate, over such a little and insignificant girl?"

And she was seized with sudden joy. There were no doubts, no
hesitations-she was received into their midst-she entered justified
the ranks of those noble people who always ascend to heaven through
fires, tortures and executions. Bright peace and tranquillity and
endless, calmly radiant happiness! It was as if she had already