"You said a moment ago that you knew what mercy was, yet you cannot understand my feeling at the thought that he must die."
Robespierre took up a pen from the table and poised it over a sheet of paper. The pleading look in the beautiful eyes gave him great enjoyment, and he took a keen relish in prolonging it.
"A few words from my pen," he said tantalizingly, "would set the man at liberty. How would you reward me if I wrote them for you?"
"Oh, I pray you to do so," she cried out, throwing herself at his feet. "I pray you to write them. If you have the power, use it for mercy."
Robespierre gazed deep into the eyes which looked up at him imploringly.
"Who are you?" he demanded with the energy of sudden passion. "You are no woman of the common people. Who are you?"
"One who would have you do a noble action," she answered. "One who is pleading with you for your own soul's sake."
"Whoever you may be, you have bewitched me. Promise you will come hence with me, and I will write the release."
"Write it," she whispered faintly.
Robespierre dashed off a few hurried lines.