But abruptly there was a rush of sentiment in her, a burst dam of it that surged through her: not love, not even affection, but she felt sorry for him. She felt so sorry for him, for aiming his dart at someone as unfit and wretched as her. “When our work is done,” she told him, even though the wiser part of her was fighting to trammel the words up, “who knows what may happen? I may not even be allowed to hold my office then. I am a murderer, and I have struck down another priest of the Light. When this is done, who knows?” She saw him take it as the ray of hope it was not, and she wanted to
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