h of revolution in Virginia, and denounced the
vengeance of future generations upon tyranny and oppression. Nay, he
even went farther, and characterized as brutal bloody butchers the
avengers of the broken laws of their country."

"I remember," said Berkeley, turning pale at the recollection.

"But there is another cogent reason why he should suffer the penalty
which he has so richly incurred. If your object be to secure the
returning loyalty and affection of the people, you should not incense
them by unjust discrimination in favour of a particular rebel. The
friends of Drummond, of Lawrence, of Cheeseman, of Wilford, of Bland, of
Carver, will all say, and say with justice, that you spared the
principal leader in the rebellion, the personal friend and adviser of
Bacon, while their own kinsmen were doomed to the scaffold. Nor will
those ghosts walk unavenged."

"I see, I see," cried Berkeley, grasping Bernard warmly by the hand.
"You have saved me, Alfred, from a weakness which I must ever afterwards
have deplored, and at the expense of your own feelings, my boy."

"Yes, my dear patron," replied Bernard, with a sigh, "you may well say
at the expense of my own feelings. For I too, have just witnessed a
scene which would have moved a heart of stone; and it was at the request
of that poor, weeping, broken-hearted girl, to save whom from distress,
I would willingly lay down my life--it was at her request that I came to
beg at your hands the poor privilege of a last interview with her lover.
Even Justice, stern as are her decrees, cannot deny this boon to Mercy."

"You have a generous heart, my dear boy," said the Governor, with the
tears starting from his eyes. "There are not many men who would thus
take delight in ministering consolation to the heart of a successful
rival. You have my full and free permission. Go, my son, and through
life may your heart be ever thus awake to such generous impulses, yet
sustained and controlled by your unwavering devotion to duty and
justice."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

"My life, my health, my liberty, my all!
How shall I welcome thee to this sad place--
How speak to thee the words of joy and transport?
How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters,
Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled
And pinioned like a thief or murderer?"
_The Mourning Bride._

How different from the soliloquy of the dark and treacherous Bernard,