“Madam,” said Charles, “you have at length obtained your own pardon, and methinks that is already a sufficient act of generosity, when I might have held you still as a hostage for the escaped prisoners.” “If you entertained any hopes from that circumstance,” rejoined Alice, “that those whom you pursue would ever deliver themselves up for my redemption, believe me, they were idle; for I had taken care to prevent the knowledge of my situation ever coming to their ears. And except for some such a hope, I can hardly think you would desire longer to confine an innocent female.” “Your own release is freely granted,” said Charles; “and I grieve, now that I behold you, that it should have been thus long delayed.” “My release is something, it is true,” said Alice, “since it will permit my return to those unhappy beings for whom I plead. But will you not add to this not of generosity one still more noble, and let me bear to them the news of their pardon.” “It grieves me to refuse you,” answered Charles. “But your father was one of the most implacable judges in that parricidal court that condemned Charles I. to death.” At these words Alice leaned back against the walls of the apartment for support, her countenance becoming, not paler than before, for that was impossible, but convulsed with the effort to repress her emotion. “Hear me,” said she at length, after a violent struggle, “I have one plea to urge in behalf of my request, and if it fails of success, I will depart in despair.” “Say on, madam,” answered the king; “your plea must, indeed, be powerful, since you are about to advance it with so much fervor and confidence.” “It is in the confidence of small desert, my lord. But I will proceed at once to offer it. This is not,” she continued, “the first time that I have come to beg the boon of a human life within these walls—a life not endeared to me by personal ties as are those for whom I now implore your forgiveness. Unprompted by any motives of self-interest, but urged merely by feelings of compassion, such as I would fain excite this moment in your bosom, I came hither to beg the life of your father, my liege, the late unhappy king.” Charles looked much astonished. “I came hither, my lord,” pursued Alice, “on the night preceding that unfortunate day which I will not pain you by naming, to solicit the influence of the only man in England who could have interposed to save the life of the late Charles Stuart. My efforts, alas! I need not say, were but too unavailing. But, by those efforts, all fruitless though they were, I urge your pardon of the offenders for whose dear sakes I am here a suppliant. Let the loyalty of the wife and daughter atone in this instance for the disloyalty of the husband and father; and let this act of noble forgiveness distinguish your reign.”