She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor.
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