THE BROTHERS
We're sorry
His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honor,
And stained our honors;
Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame,
Which envious spirits will dip their pens into
After our death, and blot us in our tombs;
For that which would seem treason in our lives,
Is laughter when we're dead. Who dares now whisper,
That dares not then speak out; and even proclaim,
With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame?
The Revenger's Tragedy.
With that quickness of perception which at once supplies information on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his composure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast.
"Seize him!" cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could command her speech.
"He rushes on his death if he stirs," exclaimed Luke, pointing his pistol.
"Bethink you where you are, villain!" cried Ranulph; "you are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy—resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself——"
"Never!" answered Luke. "Know you whom you ask to yield?"
"How should I?" answered Ranulph.
"By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady Rookwood—she can inform you, if she will."