“Arthur Talbot,” they cried aloud; and each man drew his breath hard, and grasped his sword.
“Let the unrighteous perish; let no hand be stretched forth to save him.”
Said the captain, “Thou art brave enough not to fear death, Arthur Talbot. Be prepared—thou art of the camp of the lost—thou shalt surely die.”
“He die? and have I caused his death? I who love him better than I love my life?”
The stern puritan, as he watched the effect of his hasty speech upon the poor lady’s countenance, was sorry he had spoken.
Said the puritans among themselves—“Behold a judgment. Is he not delivered into our hands? Then he must surely die!”
“Fear not,” said the lost man to his destroyer—she whom he loved so well. “Fear not, death is easy to the brave, and I am brave, or thou wouldst have never loved me.”
The captain and the colonel looked hesitatingly one at the other, and then at the cavalier. The puritans murmured and cried aloud.
“What! shall not the sword fall when the Lord hath bidden it to destroy?”
“I have killed him, I have killed him,” she exclaimed, now miserably sane.