The voice of the chaplain became suddenly choaked, for his wandering eye had fallen on the frowning countenance of Bignall, which, set in death, lay but half concealed beneath that flag which the Rover himself had cast upon the body. Then, summoning his energies, he continued, in the clear and admonitory strain that befitted his sacred calling: “They tell me you are but half lost to feeling for your kind; and, though the seeds of better principles, of better days, are smothered in your heart, that they still exist and might be quickened into goodly” “Peace! You speak in vain. To your duty with these men, or be silent.” “Is their doom sealed?” “It is.” “Who says it?” demanded a low voice at the elbow of the Rover, which, coming upon his ear at that moment, thrilled upon his most latent nerve, chasing the blood from his cheek to the secret recesses of his frame. But the weakness had already passed away with the surprise, as he calmly, and almost instantly answered,— “The law.” “The law!” repeated the governess. “Can they who set all order at defiance, who despise each human regulation, talk of law! Say, it is heartless, vindictive vengeance, if you will; but call it not by the sacred name of law.—I wander from my object! They have told me of this frightful scene, and I am come to offer ransom for the offenders. Name your price, and let it be worthy of the subject we redeem; a grateful parent shall freely give it all for the preserver of his child.” “If gold will purchase the lives you wish,” the other interrupted, with the swiftness of thought, “it is here in hoards, and ready on the moment. What say my people! Will they take ransom?” A short, brooding pause succeeded; and then a low, ominous murmur was raised in the throng, announcing their reluctance to dispense with vengeance. A scornful glance shot from the glowing eye of the Rover, across the fierce countenances by which he was environed; his lips moved with vehemence; but, as if he disdained further intercession, nothing was uttered for the ear. Turning to the divine, he added, with all the former composure of his wonderful manner,— “Forget not your sacred office—time is leaving us.” He was then moving slowly aside, in imitation of the governess, who had already veiled her features from the revolting scene, when Wilder addressed him. “For the service you would have done me, from my soul I thank you,” he said. “If you would know that I leave you in peace, give yet one solemn assurance before I die.” “To what?” “Promise, that they who came with me into your ship shall leave it unharmed, and speedily.” “Promise, Walter,” said a solemn, smothered voice, in the throng. “I do.”