“Nay,” he protested, and there was compassion in his tone. “Not unfeeling. Although duty calls me to make this decisive determination in the matter humanity prompts me to drop a tear for the unfortunate offering. I most devoutly wish that something might be done to save his life.”
“You do?” she cried eagerly. “Why, sir, ’tis easily done. A scratch of the pen is all that is necessary. Oh, ’tis a great thing to have such power! See, here are ink-horn, powder and paper! What doth hinder you from writing an order for his release?”
She stepped quickly to the table as she spoke, and picking up a quill held it appealingly toward him. His eyes softened.
“Stay!” he said. “I do feel just that way, Miss Harriet, but there is a duty that must be performed toward our people. There are many American prisoners held by the enemy. Among them some as young, as manly, as lovable as your brother. If the matter be suffered to go by without retaliation what assurance have we that they will not be as lawlessly dealt with as Captain Johnson?”
“Oh!” she said looking at him miserably. “But Clifford hath been guilty of naught. Were he a spy, an informer, a deserter, I would not ask you to abate one jot or tittle of his fate. I might in such case try to rescue him by trickery, by deceit, by any means that would save his life, but I would not question the justice of his doom. But he is not a spy, not an informer, not a deserter——”
“I KNEEL TO YOU, SIR.”
“Nor was Captain Johnson,” he reminded her. “Yet he was hanged most treacherously.”
“But not by Clifford, sir! Not by Clifford! He would scorn to do such a deed.” She stood for a moment, regarding him with such pleading that Peggy choked. Suddenly Harriet crossed the room and flung herself before him.