“Blame him not,” said Dunwoodie; “it is the general, and not the man; my life on it, he feels the blow he is compelled to inflict.”
“I have been deceived in him,” cried Frances. “He is not the savior of his country; but a cold and merciless tyrant. Oh! Peyton, Peyton! how have you misled me in his character!”
“Peace, dear Frances; peace, for God’s sake; use not such language. He is but the guardian of the law.”
“You speak the truth, Major Dunwoodie,” said Henry, recovering from the shock of having his last ray of hope extinguished, and advancing from his seat by the side of his father. “I, who am to suffer, blame him not. Every indulgence has been granted me that I can ask. On the verge of the grave I cannot continue unjust. At such a moment, with so recent an instance of danger to your cause from treason, I wonder not at Washington’s unbending justice. Nothing now remains but to prepare for that fate which so speedily awaits me. To you, Major Dunwoodie, I make my first request.”
“Name it,” said the major, giving utterance with difficulty.
Henry turned, and pointing to the group of weeping mourners near him, he continued,—
“Be a son to this aged man; help his weakness, and defend him from any usage to which the stigma thrown upon me may subject him. He has not many friends amongst the rulers of this country; let your powerful name be found among them.”
“It shall.”
“And this helpless innocent,” continued Henry, pointing to where Sarah sat, unconscious of what was passing, “I had hoped for an opportunity to revenge her wrongs;” a flush of excitement passed over his features; “but such thoughts are evil—I feel them to be wrong. Under your care, Peyton, she will find sympathy and refuge.”
“She shall,” whispered Dunwoodie.