“That it was her duty. A difficult duty to perform, you will say, but still her duty. Her praise is, that she performed it gloriously. And yet I doubt not that her sacrifice bore her its own exceeding great reward. Loving as she loved, all her sorrows must have been changed into exultation, when she saw him in after days the saint he became, the saint she helped to make him.” “And could you have made such a sacrifice, Theresa?” “I hope so, and I think so,” she replied, with a little hesitation. “But it avails not now to think of that, seeing that I cannot make such. She was a maiden, I am a wedded wife.” “True, dearest, true. I only named her, to judge by your opinion, of what I wish to learn, ere I will ask you. There was another sacrifice, Theresa, a very terrible sacrifice, made of late, and made to no purpose, too, as it fell out—a sacrifice of far more doubtful nature; yet there be some who have not failed to praise it.” “What was it—do you praise it?” “At least I pity it, Theresa.” “What was it—tell me?” “After the late rebellion at Sedgemoor. Have you not heard, Theresa?” “No, I think not—go on, I want to hear it; go on, Jasper.” “There was a young man, a cavalier, very young, very brave, very nobly born, and, it is said, very handsome. He was taken after the route of that coward, Gray of Werk’s horse—cast into prison, and, when his turn came, tried by the butcher, Kirke—you know what that means, Theresa?” “Condemned,” she said, sadly. “Of course he was condemned—what next?” “To be hung by the neck upon the shameful gibbet, and then cut down, while yet alive, and subjected to all the barbarous tortures which are inflicted as the penalty of high treason.” “Horrible! horrible! and—what more, Jasper?” “Have you not, indeed, heard the tale?” “Indeed, no. I pray you tell me, for you have moved me very deeply.” “It is very moving. The boy had a sister—the loveliest creature, it is said, that trod the soil of England, scarce seventeen years of age, a very paragon of grace and purity and beauty. They two were alone in the world—parents, kinsfolk, friends, they had none. They had none to love but one another, even as we, my Theresa; and they did love—how, you may judge. The girl threw herself at the butcher’s feet, and implored her brother’s pardon.” “Go on, go on, Jasper!” cried the young wife, excited almost beyond the power of restraining her emotions by the dreadful interest of his tale, “and, for once, he granted it?” “And, for once, as you say, he granted it. But upon one condition.” “And that was—?” “And that was, that the young girl should make a sacrifice—an awful sacrifice—should submit, in a word, to be a martyr for her brother’s sake.” “To die for him—and she died! Of course, she died to save him; that were _no_ sacrifice, none, Jasper—I say none! Why _any_ woman would have done that!” “It was not to die for him—it was to sacrifice herself—herself—for she was lovely, as I told you—to the butcher.”