“Now, let me tell you what you must do first. Under the protection of a flag of truce, you must go to the British camp and bring Violet here. Tell her I’m a prisoner and wish to see her—but don’t let her know that I’m to die an ignominious death——”
His voice failed him. And covering his face, he wept silently.
“Don’t despair—don’t give way to grief,” Ross said kindly, at the same time arising and laying his hand upon his father’s shoulder. “I’ll intercede for you—I’ll do all in my power to save you.”
John Douglas, lifting his tear-wet face, whispered tremulously:
“You—you say you’ll try to save me?”
“I will,” Ross answered firmly.
“Then—then you don’t hate me—despise me?”
The son’s voice was thick with emotion, as he replied:
“No, father, I don’t hate you; neither do I love you. But I pity you—and will use what little influence I have, in your behalf. I freely forgive you all the wrong you have done me; but I can’t forget that you were cruel to my mother—that you have been a traitor to your country. Still you’ve been kind to me in many ways—you’ve had my welfare at heart. And I’ve learned to like you. In time, perhaps——”
“Say no more!” the father cried, dashing the tears from his eyes. “I’m more than satisfied. You don’t know how you have sweetened the bitter draught that I must drink. Oh, Ross—my son! If only I could live my life over——”