upon a man who had never even believed
in her; and would she not be revenged upon him? Yes, she would be
revenged, and she would cure the malady of her own love by the only
possible remedy within her reach.

The statue of St John Nepomucene is a single figure, standing in
melancholy weeping posture on the balustrade of the bridge, without
any of that ponderous strength of wide-spread stone which belongs to
the other groups. This St John is always pictured to us as a thin,
melancholy, half-starved saint, who has had all the life washed out
of him by his long immersion. There are saints to whom a trusting
religious heart can turn, relying on their apparent physical
capabilities. St Mark, for instance, is always a tower of strength,
and St Christopher is very stout, and St Peter carries with him an
ancient manliness which makes one marvel at his cowardice when he
denied his Master. St Lawrence, too, with his gridiron, and St
Bartholomew with his flaying-knife and his own skin hanging over his
own arm, look as though they liked their martyrdom, and were proud of
it, and could be useful on an occasion. But this St John of the Bridges
has no pride in his appearance, and no strength in his look. He is a
mild, meek saint, teaching one rather by his attitude how to bear with
the malice of the waters, than offering any protection against their
violence. But now, at this moment, his aid was the only aid to which
Nina could look with any hope. She had heard of his rescuing many
persons from death amidst the current of the Moldau. Indeed she thought
that she could remember having been told that the river had no power to
drown those who could turn their minds to him when they were struggling
in the water. Whether this applied only to those who were in sight
of his statue on the bridge of Prague, or whether it was good in all
rivers of the world, she did not know. Then she tried to think whether
she had ever heard of any case in which the saint had saved one who
had--who had done the thing which she was now about to do. She was
almost sure that she had never heard of such a case as that. But, then,
was there not something special in her own case? Was not her suffering
so great, her condition so piteous, that the saint would be driven to
compassion in spite of the greatness of her sin? Would he not know that
she was punishing the Jew by the only punishment with which she could
reach him? She looked up into the saint's wan face, and fan