“It is well,” remarked Cromwell, in cold-hearted cruelty,—“If any man wrong another, let him return good, fourfold.”
Montressor, after this, was firm and collected. But for the slight quiver on his lips, it could not have been known that he was going to his death.
“Sir Governor,” he once more asked, “wilt thou be kind to her? Hast thou a daughter, to love her as a sister?”
“No—I have but a son, and he—”
“Cannot, cannot comfort her,” interrupted Montressor with some bitterness.
“Yet I know a knight,” returned the governor, “whose daughters are well known for kindness and charity. Sarah and Madeline Bradley, on knowing her history, will find her a home with them.”
“A home! Poor Mary, her best home will be the grave! There is my letter. Were it not that the sight would be horrible, I should die with this letter in my hand, and you would send to her, that she might receive it from myself! Farewell! I entered this room, a few minutes ago, with the intention of taking your life, and now I leave it to lose mine own!”
Cromwell opened the door.
“There is your way. Young man, I trust to your honour, therefore you remain unshackled to die.”