In another moment the door again opened, and Virginia Temple, pale and trembling, fell upon her knees before the Governor, and raised her soft, blue eyes to his face so imploringly, that the heart of the old man was moved to pity.
“Rise, my daughter,” he said, tenderly; “tell me your cause of grief. It surely cannot be so deep as to bring you thus upon your knees to an old friend. Rise then, and tell me.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, with a trembling voice, “I knew that you were kind, and would listen to my prayer.”
“Well, Virginia,” said the Governor, in the same mild tone, “let me hear your request? You know, we old servants of the king have not much time to spare at best, and these are busy times. Is your father well, and your good mother? Can I serve them in any thing?”
“They are both well and happy, nor do they need your aid,” said Virginia; “but I, sir, oh! how can I speak. I have come from Windsor Hall to ask that you will be just and merciful. There is, sir, a brave man here in chains, who is doomed to die—to die to-morrow. Oh, Hansford, Hansford!” and unable longer to control her emotion, the poor, broken-hearted girl burst into an agony of tears.
Berkeley's brow clouded in an instant.
“And is it for that unhappy man, my poor girl, that you have come alone to sue?”
“I did not come alone,” replied Virginia; “my father is with me, and will himself unite in my request.”
“I will be most happy to see my old friend again, but I would that he came on some less hopeless errand. Major Hansford must die. The laws alike of his God and his country, which he has trampled regardless under foot, require the sacrifice of his blood.”
“But, for the interposition of mercy,” urged the poor girl, “the laws of God require the death of all—and the laws of his country have vested in you the right to arrest their rigour at your will. Oh, how much sweeter to be merciful than sternly just!”