TRANSFORMATION

The door of the courtyard swung slowly, and closed itself of its own
accord. Miriam and Donatello were now alone there. She clasped her
hands, and looked wildly at the young man, whose form seemed to have
dilated, and whose eyes blazed with the fierce energy that had suddenly
inspired him. It had kindled him into a man; it had developed within him
an intelligence which was no native characteristic of the Donatello whom
we have heretofore known. But that simple and joyous creature was gone
forever.

"What have you done?" said Miriam, in a horror-stricken whisper.

The glow of rage was still lurid on Donatello's face, and now flashed
out again from his eyes.

"I did what ought to be done to a traitor!" he replied. "I did what your
eyes bade me do, when I asked them with mine, as I held the wretch over
the precipice!"

These last words struck Miriam like a bullet. Could it be so? Had her
eyes provoked or assented to this deed? She had not known it. But, alas!
looking back into the frenzy and turmoil of the scene just acted, she
could not deny--she was not sure whether it might be so, or no--that a
wild joy had flamed up in her heart, when she beheld her persecutor in
his mortal peril. Was it horror?--or ecstasy? or both in one? Be the
emotion what it might, it had blazed up more madly, when Donatello
flung his victim off the cliff, and more and more, while his shriek went
quivering downward. With the dead thump upon the stones below had come
an unutterable horror.

"And my eyes bade you do it!" repeated she.

They both leaned over the parapet, and gazed downward as earnestly as if
some inestimable treasure had fallen over, and were yet recoverable.
On the pavement below was a dark mass, lying in a heap, with little or
nothing human in its appearance, except that the hands were stretched
out, as if they might have clutched for a moment at the small square
stones. But there was no motion in them now. Miriam watched the heap of
mortality while she could count a hundred, which she took pains to do.
No stir; not a finger moved!

"You have killed him, Donatello! He is quite dead!" said she. "Stone
dead! Would I were so, too!"

"Did you not mean that he should die?" sternly asked Donatello, still in
the glow of that intelligence which passion had developed in him. "There
was short time to weigh the matter; but he had his trial in that breath
or two while I held him over the cliff, and his sentence in