Urged on by emotion, the princess had scarcely heard the suppressed interjection of the king which her first words had occasioned, and she scarcely saw the withering sternness which gathered on his brow.

“Thou hast in truth learnt oratory, most sapient daughter,” he said, bitterly; “thou pleadest well and flowingly, yet thou hast said not for whom thou bearest this marvellous interest—­it can scarce be for a traitor?  Methinks the enemies of Edward should be even such unto his children.”

“Yet ’tis for one of these mistaken men I plead, most gracious sovereign,” resumed Joan, intimidated not by his sarcasm.  “Oh, my father, the conqueror’s triumph consists not in the number of rebellious heads that fall before him—­not in the blood that overflows his way; magnanimity, mercy, will conquer yet more than his victorious sword.  Traitor as he seem, have mercy on Nigel Bruce; oh, give—­”

“Mercy on a Bruce!  May the thunder of heaven blast me when I show it!” burst furiously from Edward’s lips, as he started upon his couch and gazed on his suppliant child with eyes that seemed absolutely to blaze in wrath.  “Mercy on a branch of that house which has dared defy me, dared to insult my power, trample on my authority, upraised the standard of rebellion, and cost me the lives of thousands of my faithful subjects!  Mercy on him, the daring traitor, who, even in his chains, has flung redoubled insult and treason into our very teeth!  Mercy—­may the God of heaven deny me all mercy when I show it unto him!”

“Oh, no, no, my father!  My father, in mercy speak not such terrible words!” implored the princess, clinging to his robe.  “Call not the wrath of heaven on thy head; think of his youth, the temptations that have beset him, the difficult task to remain faithful when all other of his house turned astray.  Mistaken as he hath been, as he is, have mercy.  Compel him to prove, to feel, to acknowledge thou art not the tyrant he hath been taught to deem thee; exile, imprisonment, all—­any thing, but death.  Oh, do not turn from me; be thyself, the good, the magnanimous Edward of former days, have mercy on thy foe!”

“I tell thee, never! by every saint in heaven, I tell thee, never!” shouted the king.  “I will hear no more; begone, lest I deem my own child part and parcel of the treasons formed against me.  Trouble me not with these vain prayers.  I will not pardon, I have sworn it; begone, and learn thy station better than to plead for traitors.  Thy husband braved me once; beware, lest in these pleadings I hear his voice again.  I tell him and thee that ere to-morrow’s noon be passed the soul of Nigel Bruce shall stand in judgment; not another day, not another hour he lives to blast me with the memory of his treason.  The warrant hath been signed, and is on its way to Berwick, to give his body to the hangman and his soul to Satan—­his death is sealed.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” shrieked a voice of sudden anguish, startling all who heard, and even Edward, by its piteous tones, and the form of a page suddenly fell prostrate before the monarch.  “Mercy, mercy! for the love of God, have mercy!” he struggled to articulate, but there was no sound save a long and piercing shriek, and the boy lay senseless on the ground.