“Have you doomed the outlaw to death?”
“I have,” answered Sir Dacre. “I could, in justice, pronounce no other doom.”
“I beheld him through yonder window,” she said, “and never did I behold a nobler-looking youth. With what grace and courage he confronted you; what emotion in his countenance; what defiance in his tone. Such a youth must not die so shameful a death. I thought, as I looked upon him, of our own boy.”
“Peace, Alice; you kindle afresh the embers of pain,” cried Sir Dacre. “Recall not the memory of that one dread sorrow which has for ever destroyed our happiness.”
“Grant me this captive’s life,” she cried passionately.
“Do you plead for him?”
“I plead and pray that he may be spared to forsake his evil career, and seek his fortune in some honourable path. It is hard that so young and so noble a stranger should die, and by our hands. Give him life, husband, though you may not give him liberty. His life is the boon I crave. Deny me not.”
“I would deny it, Alice, to the mother that bore him,” said De Ermstein, with stern composure, “though she pled for him on her bended knees. I dare not suffer such a villain to live. Did I spare him, I might be accused of participation in his crimes. Plead for him no more; I am inexorable. I am steeled against pity.”