“Nay, my poor girl,” said Sir William, “you speak of what you cannot understand, and your own griefs have blinded your mind. Justice, Virginia, is mercy; for by punishing the offender it prevents the repetition of the offence. The vengeance of the law thus becomes the safeguard of society, and the sword of justice becomes the sceptre of righteousness.” “I cannot reason with you,” returned Virginia. “You are a statesman, and I am but a poor, weak girl, ignorant of the ways of the world.” “And therefore you have come to advocate this suit instead of your father,” said Berkeley, smiling. “I see through your little plot already. Come, tell me now, am I not right in my conjecture? Why have you come to urge the cause of Hansford, instead of your father?” “Because,” said Virginia, with charming simplicity, “we both thought, that as Sir William Berkeley had already decided upon the fate of this unhappy man, it would be easier to reach his heart, than to affect the mature decision of his judgment.” “You argued rightly, my dear girl,” said Berkeley, touched by her frankness and simplicity, as well as by her tears. “But it is the hard fate of those in power to deny themselves often the luxury of mercy, while they tread onward in the rough but straight path of justice. It is ours to follow the stern maxim of our old friend Shakspeare: 'Mercy but murders, pardoning those who kill.'” “But it does seem to me,” said the resolute girl, losing all the native diffidence of her character in the interest she felt in her cause—“it does seem to me that even stern policy would sometimes dictate mercy. May not a judicious clemency often secure the love of the misguided citizen, while harsh justice would estrange him still farther from loyalty?” “There, you are trenching upon your father's part, my child,” said the Governor. “You must not go beyond your own cue, you know—for believe me that your plea for mercy would avail far more with me than your reasons, however cogent. This rebellion proceeded too far to justify any clemency toward those who promoted it.” “But it is now suppressed,” said Virginia, resolutely; “and is it not the sweetest attribute of power, to help the fallen? Oh, remember,” she added, carried away completely by her subject, “'Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, Than in restoring such as are undone; Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear, But man alone can, when he conquers, spare.'” “I did not expect to hear your father's daughter defend her cause by such lines as these. Do you know where they are found?” “They are Waller's, I believe,” said Virginia, blushing at this involuntary display of learning; “but it is their truth, and not their author, which suggested them to me.” “Your memory is correct,” said Berkeley, with a smile, “but they are found in his panegyric on the Protector. A eulogy upon a traitor is bad authority with an old cavalier like me.”