“But they, according to their own confession, are members of that notorious band called the Tory League. Are you then, numbered among their associates?”
“I am—their leader.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you—but I dare not mention that terrible name; the very thought of it makes my blood run cold with horror.”
“It is but too true—I do bear that name which none have learned to repeat, save to visit with curses and execrations the head of its possessor—Iron Hand.”
“Yes, yes; that dreadful synonym for bloody murder and rapine.”
“Imogene, you judge me too harshly. Though hated by mankind; though my name be whispered in accents of fear and loathing, yet I am not so bad as the world would have me. One thing always has sustained me when on the very verge of despair, and like a celestial guide, has directed my footsteps, and bid me hope when all around me was ingulfed in misery and darkness—it is the thought, that you might yet look upon me more kindly; that you might at some future day, even learn to love me.”
“Talk not to me of love! Know you not that I am already betrothed—that my hand is already plighted to another?”
“Ay! I know it but too well. It is that that has compelled me to have recourse to these extreme measures; it is the burning love that is consuming me, that has goaded me on to undertake that which in my better moments I would scorn to do.”
“Is it to avow your vile passion that you have torn me from my happy home, and brought sorrow to the heart of my venerable father? Is it for that purpose that you have seduced America’s sons from their allegiance—that you have enlisted in your service the silvery locks of age, and made them subservient tools for the furtherance of your diabolical schemes? It is for this, then, that you have outraged propriety, modesty, and the laws of God and man? Is it thus you expect to be successful? You speak of love; yes, it is like that the hawk bears the dove, merely to toy with its victim for a time, then to rend it in pieces with its talons. Thank God! I have penetrated your disguise, and understand your villainous designs—I am no longer deceived. Your heart is black and treacherous, your soul stained with crimes innumerable, and honor has fled the breast of one so corrupted!”
The Tory chieftain drew back at the passionate energy of Imogene’s manner. His rage stood revealed in his pale and distorted face; but suppressing his anger—he thought it policy—he replied with affected composure: