hate myself. I scorn myself. But am I to be wretched forever because of
that one fault, Paul? Will you not be my saviour and forgive me my sin?
Oh, do not drive me mad. I am only clinging to my reason. Whip me and I
shall be well. Take me again, Paul. I will not, if you like, even fancy
myself your wife any more. I will be your slave. You shall do with me
whatever you will. I will obey you to the very letter. Oh beat me and
let me go."

She sunk prone on the floor, and clasped and kissed his feet.

He took the whip from her hand.

Of course a man can not strike a woman! He may tread her in the mire; he
may clasp her and then scorn her; he may kiss her close, and then dash
her from him into a dung-heap, but he must not strike her--that would be
unmanly! Oh! grace itself is the rage of the pitiful Othello to the
forbearance of many a self-contained, cold-blooded, self-careful slave,
that thinks himself a gentleman! Had not Faber been even then full of
his own precious self, had he yielded to her prayer or to his own wrath,
how many hours of agony would have been saved them both!--"What! would
you have had him really strike her?" I would have had him do _any thing_
rather than choose himself and reject his wife: make of it what you
will. Had he struck once, had he seen the purple streak rise in the
snow, that instant his pride-frozen heart would have melted into a
torrent of grief; he would have flung himself on the floor beside her,
and in an agony of pity over her and horror at his own sacrilege, would
have clasped her to his bosom, and baptized her in the tears of remorse
and repentance; from that moment they would have been married indeed.

When she felt him take the whip, the poor lady's heart gave a great