e own judgment?"

"Was as thine. It is an ill necessity, yet it must be."

"Didst pronounce his sentence?"

Nigel answered in the affirmative.

"And how was it received?"

"In the same sullen silence on the part of the criminal as he had borne
during his examination. Methought a low murmur of discontent escaped
from some within the hall, but it was drowned in the shout of
approbation from the men-at-arms, and the execrations they lavished on
the traitor as they bore him away, so I heeded it not."

"But thou wilt heed it," said a sweet voice beside him, and Agnes, who
had just entered the chamber, laid her hand on his arm and looked
beseechingly in his face. "Dearest Nigel, I come a pleader."

"And for whom, my beloved?" he asked, his countenance changing into its
own soft beautiful expression as he gazed on her, "What can mine Agnes
ask that Nigel may not grant?"

"Nay, I am no pleader for myself," she said; "I come on the part of a
wretched wife and aged mother, beseeching the gift of life."

"And for a traitor, Agnes?"

"I think of him but as a husband and son, dearest Nigel," she said, more
timidly, for his voice was stern. "They tell me he is condemned to
death, and his wretched wife and mother besought my influence with thee;
and indeed it needed little entreaty, for when death is so busy around
us, when in this fearful war we see the best and bravest of our friends
fall victims every day, oh, I would beseech you to spare life when it
may be. Dearest, dearest Nigel, have mercy on this wretched man; traitor
as he is, oh, do not take his life--do not let thy lips sentence him to
death. Wilt thou not be merciful?"

"If the death of one man will preserve the lives of many, how may that
one be spared?" said Sir Nigel, folding the sweet pleader closer to him,
though his features spoke no relaxation of his purpose. "Sweet Agnes, do
not ask this, give me not the bitter pain of refusing aught to thee.
Thou knowest not all the mischief and misery which pardon to a traitor
such as this will do; thou listenest only to thy kind heart and the sad
pleadings of those who love this man. Now listen to me, beloved, and
judge thyself. Did I believe a pardon would bring back the traitor to a
sense of duty, to a consciousness of his great crime--did I believe
giving life to him would deter others from the same guilt, I should
scarce wait even for thy sweet pleading to give him both liberty and
life; but I know him better th