As the bishop leaned back in his chair an approving murmur rose from all parts of the hall.
The wife’s sobs suddenly ceased. She no longer held her hands to Tai Lin. And forgetful of all those silent men around her she dumbly, beseechingly looked up into the bishop’s face.
“The guilty alone must die,” he repeated in the same gentle, decisive tones.
“No! No!”
“Yes; we must have justice,” he interrupted firmly, “for the knowledge of our uprightness is spread over all countries and the people look up to us for it.”
“Oh, why do you say that?” she cried, holding out her hands to him. “Is it not better to give mercy than to demand justice? I know you men of greatness love justice, but it is so deep, while mercy is like the heavens where every little act shines out as the light of a star and tinges the depths of whole regions! Oh, Great Sir, don’t be just and your fame will spread over all lands. Nothing is so wide as mercy. Wherever the skies cast their shadows, wherever stars shine, wherever dews fall from heaven, men will love you. Oh, do not hurt him—if you only knew——”
Tai Lin, listening to her sobbing appeal, again brought his fist down upon the table.
The bishop leaned forward and said gently:
“If he is guilty, he must die.”
She made no reply.