“It is to avenge a woman’s cruel death that I act,” he said, gloomily.
“‘Vengeance is mine,’ said the Lord; ‘and I will repay it.’”
“Hermione, this is not revenge, but justice. You know it; I know it. If I could save your husband by laying down my own life, I would gladly do it, but I cannot.”
“You will not hear my prayer, then?”
“I cannot. You should not kneel to me in vain, Hermione, if I could.”
He turned away, leaving her kneeling there—white and cold, and as one half dead—the blood in her veins frozen with fear. He walked to the window. The golden sunlight still lay on flowers and trees, a little bird was singing its sweet, melodious song. It seemed to him that years had passed since he stood there before, and the crimson shade of murder had come between him and the bright sunshine.
He stood still, his whole heart and soul given over to a mighty tempest. He knew the secret at last—after years of patient waiting, after spending a fortune in searching for the criminal—he was living here, at his own doors—he was the man he had called brother and friend.
He bit his lip to keep down the anger that was fast rising in his heart. No pitying thoughts came to him of the man who had been his friend. Hot, bitter, long-pent-up anger raged in his heart.
“For that which he has done he deserves to die,” he said, “and die he shall.”
He was startled by the touch of a soft hand, and turning he saw a sight that might have melted a heart less angry than his. Lady Hermione had stolen gently from the room in search of her children. She had brought them in with her, and they were kneeling there at his feet, and she like a sheltering angel behind.