"Then my sentence is just," sighed Anthony; "I never raised my hand against my father's life, but I raised it against my own. God has punished me for this act of rebellion against His Divine Majesty, in rejecting, as a thing of no value, the life He gave. I yield myself into His hands, confident that His arm is stretched over His repentant creature for good; whether I die upon the scaffold or end my days peacefully in my bed, I can lay my hand upon my heart and say—'His will be done.'"
For about an hour the good clergyman continued reading and praying with the prisoner, and before he left him that evening, in spite of his pre-conceived notions of his guilt, he was fully convinced of innocence.
Sadly and solemnly the hours passed on that brought the morning of his execution, "with death-bed clearness, face to face." He had joined in the sacred duties of the Sabbath; it was to him a day of peaceful rest—a forestate of the quiet solemnity of the grave. In the evening he was visited by Frederic Wildegrave, who had been too ill after the trial to leave his bed before. He was pale, and wasted with sorrow and disease, and looked more like a man going to meet death than the criminal he came to cheer with his presence.
"My dear Anthony," said Frederic, taking his cousin's hand, "my heart bleeds to see you thus. I have been sick; my spirit is weighed down with sorrow, or we should have met sooner."
"You do indeed look ill," replied Anthony, examining, with painful surprise, the altered face of his friend; "I much fear that I have been the cause of this change. Tell me, Frederic, and tell me truly, do you believe me guilty?"
"I have never for one moment entertained a thought to that effect, Anthony; though the whole world should condemn you, I would stake my salvation on your integrity."
"Bless you, my friend; my true, faithful, noble-hearted friend," cried Anthony, clasping the hand he held to his breast, "you are right; I am not the murderer."
"Who is?"
Anthony shook his head.
"That infernal scoundrel, Mathews?"