Blake's lips were quivering, as the streaming eyes of the woman were turned upon him.
“For heaven's sake, madam!” he faltered—“for heaven's sake—oh, my God! what have we done?—what have we done? Worse than Herod! the innocent children!—I hear them—I hear them! Oh, God forgive us! God forgive us for this cruel joke.”
He broke down utterly. The room now was certainly filled with wild sobbing and the sound of convulsive weeping.
For several minutes the three emotional Irishmen sat weeping. They were in the power of the woman, who, at the confession of Blake, had become perfectly self-possessed in a moment. She stood watching them, a scornful smile upon her lips. She knew that the magic which she had at her command could enchain them so long as she wished. She was merciful, however.
“If you consider your jest sufficiently successful, gentlemen,” said she, “perhaps you will oblige me by withdrawing. I have letters to write.”
The spell that she had cast around them was withdrawn.
Blake sprang to his feet and drew his handkerchief across his eyes.