And she--think of it, Sarria, only sixteen, a little girl; so innocent, that she never knew what wrong meant, pure as a little child is pure, who believed that all things were good; mature only in her love.

And to be struck down like that, while your God looked down from Heaven and would not take her part." All at once he seemed to lose control of himself.

One of those furies of impotent grief and wrath that assailed him from time to time, blind, insensate, incoherent, suddenly took possession of him.

A torrent of words issued from his lips, and he flung out an arm, the fist clenched, in a fierce, quick gesture, partly of despair, partly of defiance, partly of supplication.

"No, your God would not take her part.
Where was God's mercy in that?
Where was Heaven's protection in that?
Where was the loving kindness you preach about?
Why did God give her life if it was to be stamped out?
Why did God give her the power of love if it was to come to nothing?
Sarria, listen to me.