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But after a time her courage and resolution revived, and she thought of the only means of escape now open—death by her own hand.

The sun was high in the heaven, and the garden of the palace was still open to her. She determined to drink again of the freshness of life before she died.

She walked along the beautiful paths, and watched with pleasure the birds and insects. Earth and air seemed full of life, and death seemed terrible. She recalled the wretched fate of the heroines of her native tragic poets. Before she had often wondered why they had not put a term to their sufferings by a moment's pain. She knew now.

It seemed to her a thing impossible in nature—deliberately to take one's life, even to avoid misery. She repented that she had not already done the deed when passion had given her courage. The point of the dagger seemed