He rushed to where the patriots stood. But they thrust him back sternly.
"This is Pomp's business. Deal with him!"
"Will no one save me? Will no one speak for my life?" These words were ejaculated with the ghastly accent and volubility of terror.
"Your life is forfeited. Pomp saved it once; now he takes it. It is just," said Stackridge.
"My God! my God! my God!" Thrice the doomed man uttered that sacred name with wild despair, and with intervals of strange and silent horror between. "Then I must die!"
"I will speak for you," said a voice of solemn compassion. And Penn stepped forward.
"You? you? you will?"
"Do not hope too much. Pomp is inexorable as he is just. But I will plead for you."
"O, do! do! There is something in his face—I cannot bear it—but you can move him!"
Pomp was leaning thoughtfully by one of the giant's stools. Penn drew near to him. Deslow crouched behind, his whole frame shaking visibly.