“Virtue has its own reward,” he muttered, as he walked slowly along. “I wonder how many would be virtuous if it were not so! Self is at last the mainspring of action, and when it produces good, we call it virtue; when it accomplishes evil, we call it vice; wherein, then, am I worse than my fellow man? Here am I, now, giving this poor girl a interview with her rebel lover, and extracting some happiness for them, even from their misery. And yet I am not a whit the worse off. Nay, I am benefited, for gratitude is a sure prompter of love; and when Hansford is out of the way, who so fit to supply the niche, left vacant in her heart, as Alfred Bernard, who soothed their mutual grief. Thus virtue is often a valuable handmaid to success, and may be used for our purposes, when we want her assistance, and afterwards be whistled to the winds as a pestilent jade. Machiavelli in politics, Loyola in religion, Rochefoucault in society, ye are the mighty three, who, seeing the human heart in all its nakedness, have dared to tear the mask from its deformed and hideous features.” “What in the world are you muttering about, Alfred?” said Governor Berkeley, as they met in the porch, as Bernard had finished this diabolical soliloquy. “Oh nothing,” replied the young intriguer. “But I came to seek your excellency.” “And I to seek for you, my sage young counsellor; I have to advise with you upon a subject which lies heavy on my heart, Alfred.” “You need only command my counsel and it is yours,” said Bernard, “but I fear that I can be of little assistance in your reflections.” “Yes you can, my boy,” returned Berkeley, “I know not whether you will esteem it a compliment or not, Alfred, but yours is an old head on young shoulders, and the heart, which in the season of youth often flits away from the sober path of judgment, seems with you to follow steadily in the wake of reason.” “If you mean that I am ever ready to sacrifice my own selfish impulses to my duty, I do esteem it as a compliment, though I fear not altogether deserved.” “Well, then,” said the Governor, “this poor boy, Hansford, who is to suffer death to-morrow, I have had a strange interview concerning him since I last saw you.” “Aye, with Miss Temple,” returned Bernard. “She told me she had seen you, and that you were as impregnable to assault as the rock of Gibraltar.” “I thought so too, where treason was concerned,” said Berkeley. “But some how, the leaven of the poor girl's tears is working strangely in my heart; and after I had left her, who should I meet but her old father.” “Is Colonel Temple here?” asked Bernard, surprised. “Aye is he, and urged Hansford's claims to pardon with such force, that I had to fly from temptation. Nay he even put his plea for mercy upon the ground of his own former kindness to me.” “The good old gentleman seems determined to be paid for that hospitality,” said Bernard, with a sneer. “Well!”