“Your mother is dead,” interposed Wild, scowling.
“Dead!” echoed the boy. “Oh no—no! You say this to terrify me—to try me. But I will not believe you. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. Tell me, Sir,” he added, advancing towards the knight, “tell me has this man spoken falsely?—Tell me my mother is alive, and do what you please with me.”
“Tell him so, and have done with him, Sir Rowland,” observed Jonathan coldly.
“Tell me the truth, I implore you,” cried Thames. “Is she alive?”
“She is not,” replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look.
“Are you answered?” said Jonathan, with a grin worthy of a demon.
“My mother!—my poor mother!” ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. “Shall I never see that sweet face again,—never feel the pressure of those kind hands more—nor listen to that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I shall speedily join you. Now then,” he added more calmly, “I am ready to die. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me.”
“Then we won't even show you that mercy,” retorted the thief-taker brutally. “So get up, and leave off whimpering. Your time isn't come yet.”
“Mr. Wild,” said Trenchard, “I shall proceed no further in this business. Set the boy free.”
“If I disobey you, Sir Rowland,” replied the thief-taker, “you'll thank me for it hereafter. Gag him,” he added, pushing Thames rudely toward Quilt Arnold, “and convey him to the boat.”