Her
religion and her virtue, the strength of her faith, and the inspiration
of her innocence, supported this pure and hapless lady amid all her
undeserved and unparalleled sorrows.
It was long past midnight; the young widow of Abner reposed upon a couch
in a soft slumber. The amiable Beruna and the beautiful Bathsheba, the
curtains drawn, watched the progress of the night.
'Shall I wake her?' said the beautiful Bathsheba. 'Methinks the stars
are paler! She bade me rouse her long before the dawn.'
'Her sleep is too benign! Let us not wake her,' replied the amiable
Beruna. 'We rouse her only to sorrow.'
'May her dreams at least be happy;' rejoined the beautiful Bathsheba.
'She sleeps tranquilly, as a flower.'
'The veil has fallen from her head,' said the amiable Beruna. 'I will
replace it lightly on her brow. Is that well, my Bathsheba?'
'It is well, sweet Beruna. Her face shrouded by the shawl is like a
pearl in its shell. See! she moves!'
'Bathsheba!'
'I am here, sweet lady.'
'Is it near dawn?'
'Not yet, sweet lady; it is yet night. It is long past the noon of
night, sweet lady; methinks I scent the rising breath of morn; but still
'tis night, and the young moon shines like a sickle in the heavenly
field, amid the starry harvest.
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