Before her rose the dim altar in the church, the shadowy figure of Beatrice standing up in the dark, the horrible sacrilege that was to have been done.

Her face grew dark with fear of her own soul.

The Wanderer went so far as to try and distract her from her gloomy thoughts, out of pure kindness of heart.
"I am no theologian," he said, "but I fancy that in the long reckoning the intention goes for more than the act." "The intention!" she cried, looking back with a start.

"If that be true----" With a shudder she buried her face in her two hands, pressing them to her eyes as though to blind them to some awful sight.

Then, with a short struggle, she turned to him again.
"There is no forgiveness for me in Heaven," she said.