“Have mercy, I beseech you!” was her cry.
The landlord laughed in her face.
“It is a matter for the Lord Protector,” he said. “But I have yet to hear that he is a merciful man.”
“You will not deliver up my poor husband,” she cried,—“you will not be so cruel!”
“Mother of God!” said the landlord. “I will do my duty.”
For the second time that night the woman fell upon her knees. She flung herself at the landlord’s feet. There never was grosser clay in the world than his. He neither pitied nor spared her. Nay, he prolonged the agony of her self-abasement to the last bitter moment. He drew out the frenzy of her abandonment to its last wild prayer. He derived an intimate pleasure from the picture of the creature at his feet, casting herself upon his mercy. It was the rarest nectar to his self-esteem; he sipped it to the dregs and smacked his lips upon it. He waited as one melting in spite of himself, and then dashed her hopes to the earth by adopting the same precise, formal voice he had used before:
“Madam, I am determined to do my duty.”
“I beseech you; I implore you!” cried the unhappy woman. “Will you have no mercy for the sufferings of a wife?”
The landlord turned from her coldly.
“Will you have no pity for the agonies of a mother?” she cried. “Will you not spare the father of the babe I bear?”