“Ah!” sighed Theresa, with a terrible sensation at her heart, which she could not explain, even to herself; “and what—what did she?”
“She asked permission to consult her brother.”
“And he told her that he had rather die ten thousand deaths than that she should lose one hair’s breadth of her honor!” cried Theresa, enthusiastically clasping her hands together.
“And he told her that life was very sweet, and death on a gallows very shameful!”
“The catiff! the miserable, loathsome slave! the filthy dastard! I trust that Kirke drew him with wild horses! The gallows were too good for such a slave.”
“Then you would not have made such a sacrifice?”
“I—I!” she exclaimed, her soft blue eyes actually flashing fire; “I sacrifice my honor! but lo!” she interrupted herself, smiling at her own vehemence, “am not I a little fool, to fancy that you are in earnest. No, dearest Jasper, I would no more make that sacrifice, than you would suffer me to do so. Did not I make that reservation, did I not say any sacrifice, which you would ask of me?”
“Ay, dearest!” he replied gently, laying his hand on her head, “you do me no more than justice there. I would die as many deaths as I have hairs on my head, before you should so save me.” And for the first time that night Jasper St. Aubyn spoke in earnest.
“I know you would, Jasper. But go on, I pray you, with this fearful tale. I would you had not begun it; but now you have, I must hear it to the end. What did she?”
“She did, Theresa, as her brother bade her. She sacrificed herself to the butcher.”