He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering--and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help it.
Quien a través de un bello panorama se dirige al cadalso, no repara en las flores que sonríen en su camino, sino en el patíbulo y la tumba que le esperan. Yo, pues, pensaba en mi situación, de fugitiva sin hogar, y -¡oh, con qué angustia!- en lo que dejaba atrás.