"That ruin—that work of death—was the act of a midnight revel, the deed of those who sat at my board, and who deemed it only too great an honour for the scorned Puritan to perish by their hands. Your young cavalier was the foremost of those brawlers. One dear to me as a son fell by his sword. Others of that merciless band have fallen before me one by one, but he has eluded my pursuit. God delivered him unto my wrath, and lo! the vain foolishness of a woman has again deferred that righteous judgment which I feel written in my inmost soul it is given unto me to execute!"
"Alas!" exclaimed Francesca; "I do not plead to excuse the cruel injuries to which an unnatural warfare has led; but, for your own sake, be merciful;—the heart knows no peace like forgiveness."
"What know you of forgiveness?" interrupted the other. "What injuries have you had to pardon? Have you stood amid the dead and the dying, those for whom you would have poured forth your heart's best blood?"
"There are other sorrows than those which are the heritage of the sword—other injuries than those wrought by the red right hand; and life is more easily parted with than happiness."
