“Stay,” said Berkeley, his pride wounded by this imputation, “you know, Alfred, that if I thought that clemency towards this young rebel would encourage rebellion in the future, I would rather lose my life than spare his. But speak out, and tell me candidly why you think the execution of this sentence necessary to satisfy justice.”
“You force me to an ungrateful duty,” replied the young hypocrite, “for it is far more grateful to the heart of a benevolent man to be the advocate of mercy, than the stern champion of justice. But since you ask my reasons, it is my duty to obey you. First, then, this young man, from his talent, his bravery, and his high-flown notions about liberty, is far more dangerous than any of the insurgents who have survived Nathaniel Bacon. Then, he has shown that so far from repenting of his treason, he is ready to justify it, as witness his speech, wherein he predicted the triumph of revolution in Virginia, and denounced the vengeance of future generations upon tyranny and oppression. Nay, he even went farther, and characterized as brutal bloody butchers the avengers of the broken laws of their country.”
“I remember,” said Berkeley, turning pale at the recollection.
“But there is another cogent reason why he should suffer the penalty which he has so richly incurred. If your object be to secure the returning loyalty and affection of the people, you should not incense them by unjust discrimination in favour of a particular rebel. The friends of Drummond, of Lawrence, of Cheeseman, of Wilford, of Bland, of Carver, will all say, and say with justice, that you spared the principal leader in the rebellion, the personal friend and adviser of Bacon, while their own kinsmen were doomed to the scaffold. Nor will those ghosts walk unavenged.”
“I see, I see,” cried Berkeley, grasping Bernard warmly by the hand. “You have saved me, Alfred, from a weakness which I must ever afterwards have deplored, and at the expense of your own feelings, my boy.”
“Yes, my dear patron,” replied Bernard, with a sigh, “you may well say at the expense of my own feelings. For I too, have just witnessed a scene which would have moved a heart of stone; and it was at the request of that poor, weeping, broken-hearted girl, to save whom from distress, I would willingly lay down my life—it was at her request that I came to beg at your hands the poor privilege of a last interview with her lover. Even Justice, stern as are her decrees, cannot deny this boon to Mercy.”
“You have a generous heart, my dear boy,” said the Governor, with the tears starting from his eyes. “There are not many men who would thus take delight in ministering consolation to the heart of a successful rival. You have my full and free permission. Go, my son, and through life may your heart be ever thus awake to such generous impulses, yet sustained and controlled by your unwavering devotion to duty and justice.”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
“My life, my health, my liberty, my all!
How shall I welcome thee to this sad place—
How speak to thee the words of joy and transport?
How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters,
Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled
And pinioned like a thief or murderer?”
The Mourning Bride.