human
These young creatures! thought she.
gpt
What a lot! They are to be parted--wrenched asunder by death--by the same cause, for indulgence of the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my heart, and its last struggle--my bosom is quivering with it still. For this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had--alas! not forgetfulness of my child--but a home, and the good fame that a woman cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart--tender to me, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in a station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which would startle Moyse himself--hates them so that he does not even strive, as I do, to remember that they are human--to be ready to give them the cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they grieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh at their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him: while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us--among us who, God knows, are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when Genifrede's first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! that trumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silence that trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off--and further. God grant she may not have heard it!