His daughter was now prostrate at his feet.
“Strike,” said she, “strike here a wretch, whose misery cannot end but with that death she deserves.”
Her hair had fallen on her shoulders! her look had the horrid calmness of out-breathed despair! Her father would have spoken; his lip quivered, his cheek grew pale, his eyes lost the lightning of their fury! there was a reproach in them, but with a mingling of pity. He turned them up to heaven, then on his daughter. He laid his left hand on his heart, the sword dropped from his right, he burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER.
Harley kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate daughter.
“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to entreat your pardon for one whose offences have been already so signally punished. I know, I feel, that those tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more dreadful to her than all the punishments your sword could have inflicted: accept the contrition of a child whom heaven has restored to you.”
“Is she not lost,” answered he, “irrecoverably lost? Damnation! a common prostitute to the meanest ruffian!”
“Calmly, my dear sir,” said Harley, “did you know by what complicated misfortunes she had fallen to that miserable state in which you now behold her, I should have no need of words to excite your compassion. Think, sir, of what once she was. Would you abandon her to the insults of an unfeeling world, deny her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her own!”
“Speak,” said he, addressing himself to his daughter; “speak; I will hear thee.”
The desperation that supported her was lost; she fell to the ground, and bathed his feet with her tears.