“I love him so dearly,” she moaned--“oh, so dearly, Kenelm! Have pity on me. I have never wronged you. I have been a true, good friend to you all my life. I have sorrowed for your sorrows. Spare me now!” “I would not injure you, Hermione,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “I----” But she interrupted him. “You would not injure me, yet you would take him who is the life of my life from me. Oh! Kenelm, see, I would not raise that finger to save my own life, but I kneel to plead for his, and I shall kneel until you grant my prayer!” “It is useless. The most solemn oath that a man could take I have taken; it was on the dead, white lips of my murdered love, and I cannot break it!” Her lips grew parched and dry with the terrible agony that possessed her. Her voice was weak and faint as though she were exhausted by long and wearisome pain. “You must spare him, Kenelm. See, I pray you with tears--I pray to you as woman never prayed before. For God’s dear sake, let him go free! “You are not listening!” she cried; “you are turning from me--you who hold what is dearer than life in your hand. I will give you---- Oh! my God! what can I give you? How will I bribe you? Would that my lips were touched with fire! Would that my heart lay before you that you might see its love and its despair!” “Justice!” he said, slowly; “we must have justice. Remember, it is an attribute of the most high God, just as mercy is. Remember who said, ‘Blood for blood.’ Remember my oath.” She fell forward then with her face on the ground, and such passionate prayers went from her white lips he could with difficulty withstand them. “You will never be happy again if you do this ruthless deed! If she, poor Clarice, could speak, she would plead for him! Oh, spare him, Kenelm; spare him!” She seized his hand, and the tears from her weeping eyes fell on it. “You will be kind to me. You are chivalrous and kind. You will not let a woman kneel here at your feet, and refuse her prayer?” “It is to avenge a woman’s cruel death that I act,” he said, gloomily. “‘Vengeance is mine,’ said the Lord; ‘and I will repay it.’” “Hermione, this is not revenge, but justice. You know it; I know it. If I could save your husband by laying down my own life, I would gladly do it, but I cannot.” “You will not hear my prayer, then?” “I cannot. You should not kneel to me in vain, Hermione, if I could.” He turned away, leaving her kneeling there--white and cold, and as one half dead--the blood in her veins frozen with fear. He walked to the window. The golden sunlight still lay on flowers and trees, a little bird was singing its sweet, melodious song. It seemed to him that years had passed since he stood there before, and the crimson shade of murder had come between him and the bright sunshine.