“Is that all you have to say?” said the unmoved ruffian.
“Do not dip your hands in the blood of a defenceless creature that has trusted to you,” said Jeanie, still on her knees.
“Is that all you can say for your life?—Have you no promise to give?—Will you destroy your sister, and compel me to shed more blood?”
“I can promise nothing,” said Jeanie, “which is unlawful for a Christian.”
He cocked the weapon, and held it towards her.
“May God forgive you!” she said, pressing her hands forcibly against her eyes.
“D—n!” muttered the man; and, turning aside from her, he uncocked the pistol, and replaced it in his pocket—“I am a villain,” he said, “steeped in guilt and wretchedness, but not wicked enough to do you any harm! I only wished to terrify you into my measures—She hears me not—she is gone!—Great God! what a wretch am I become!”
As he spoke, she recovered herself from an agony which partook of the bitterness of death; and, in a minute or two, through the strong exertion of her natural sense and courage, collected herself sufficiently to understand he intended her no personal injury.
“No!” he repeated; “I would not add to the murder of your sister, and of her child, that of any one belonging to her!—Mad, frantic, as I am, and unrestrained by either fear or mercy, given up to the possession of an evil being, and forsaken by all that is good, I would not hurt you, were the world offered me for a bribe! But, for the sake of all that is dear to you, swear you will follow my counsel. Take this weapon, shoot me through the head, and with your own hand revenge your sister’s wrong, only follow the course—the only course, by which her life can be saved.”
“Alas! is she innocent or guilty?”