“You will kill me—you will kill me if I give it to you. Oh, relent—take me now away—place me on ship board—take all I have of money back again; you shall have the confession, too, if you will spare my life. Oh, God! If you want revenge against me, let me live, for life to me is horrible enough. Yet I dare not die. Learmont, if you have one lingering hope of grace hereafter, spare me now. I am beaten—conquered—I admit all—you shall triumph over me as you may, but do not—oh, do not kill me.”
“The confession—the confession,” was Learmont’s only reply.
Gray then wrung his hands and wept hysterically, and Learmont let go his hold of him, for he saw he was incapable of resistance.
“God help me—God help me,” he said. “You, Learmont, made me what I am; you tempted me—oh, spare my poor worthless life; why should you kill me. I, poor Jacob Gray, your slave—one who has done so much for you—who will do anything you please. Think again, Learmont, think again.”
“Time is flying—I must have the confession.”
“Then, you would kill me—you would—you would—let me go into the street, and I will tell you where to find it; but you would kill me here, Learmont. I swear I will tell you where it is if you will but let me go. I will never trouble you more—you shall never hear of me. Oh, why kill me—it may bring you danger, but can give you no safety. I tell you you shall never look upon my face again, and you will have the consolation of reflecting that you overcame without soiling your hands with my blood. You relent—I can see you relent, Learmont. You will not kill me—you will not kill me!”
“Peace—peace,” said Learmont. “I must have the confession. Give it to me, and you shall live.”
“Can I—dare I? Oh, let me be assured, Learmont. Let me go first—I cannot denounce you without condemning myself! Let me leave here, and when we are in some public place, I will tell you where to find it, as well as swearing I will trouble you no more! I will for ever be thankful to you for my life! Oh, think what a great gift is life to me, and yet how small an one it is for you to give. It gives me all—takes from you nothing! Spare me—you see I am abject!—You hear my sobs!—See I am clasping your knees—I am kneeling to you!—I, who never even knelt to Heaven!—Look at my tears—Life—life—life!—Oh, let me have life!”
He grovelled as the feet of Learmont—he sobbed—wept—prayed—implored for mercy! He crawled after him as the squire shrunk back; he seized him by his cloak, and when that was wrenched from his hands, he clasped them above his head, and with an awful spasmodic action of the throat he kept repeating the one word,—
“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!”