Lord Ashley turned aside. He drew a cigarette-case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette and, crossing the room to a side table, lighted it. Walking over to the sigmagraph, he took up his post with his back turned to it.
“Four minutes only are left to you,” he said ominously, as he drew out his watch.
His words came to his listener as an electric shock. She roused herself from her momentary lethargy and despair.
“Will you not be moved to justice?” she cried. “Don’t you see that what you ask cannot be? I could never know happiness—never make you happy. I should forever have this scene before my eyes—this scene of blood—of treachery!”
“I have told you it is a judicial execution—none the less judicial and proper because justice is meted out privately rather than publicly. High affairs of state under all governments not infrequently demand such a course—a course which in reality shows undeserved mercy to him.”
“Mercy! mercy! This you call mercy!”
“It is the only mercy I will show him, unless——”
“Don’t say this! You will not permit this wicked, treacherous deed! You will save him! You will give the signal—say that you will give the signal!”
“Three minutes!”
“No, no! Don’t count. You drive me mad! Is there nothing will move you to pity—nothing turn you from this——”