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THE WHITE BUTTERFLY.
95
priest with folded arms and head bent over his breast, murmuring pious prayers.
Such was the scene which the morning sun lighted in Berta's room. The birds of the garden alighted on the rail of the window, but did not venture to enter; they looked in apprehensively and flew away terrified; they twittered on the branches of the trees, and their melancholy chirpings seemed like sighs.
Breathing a sigh torn from the inmost depths of his soul, Adrian Baker exclaimed in a hollow voice:
"Miserable man that I am! I have killed her!"
"Ah, yes," said the priest, slowly shaking his head. "Divine Justice—Doubt kills."
