“You counsel what I can never perform, honourable Sir,” replied Aveline; “and were he even branded like Cain, I could not shut my heart towards him.  Nothing can make me forget that I am his daughter.  That his offence will be dreadfully expiated, I do not doubt; but if I can alleviate his sufferings in any way, I will do so; and I will never cease to plead for mercy for him.  And O, honourable Sir! you regard his offence in a darker light than it deserves.  You treat him as if he had actually accomplished the direful purpose attributed to him; whereas, nothing has been proven against him beyond the possession of a weapon, which he might keep about his person for self-defence.”

“The plea you urge is futile, maiden,” rejoined Sir Thomas; “he is judged out of his own mouth, for his own lips have avowed his criminal intention.”

“Still, it was but the intention, honourable Sir!”

“In such cases, the intention is equal to the crime—­at least in the eyes of law and justice.  No plea will save Hugh Calveley.  Of that rest assured.”

“One plea may be urged for him, which, whether it avail or not, is the truth, and shall be made.  It is painful to speak of my father as I must now do; but there is no help for it.  Of late years he has been subject to strange mental hallucinations, which have bordered close upon madness, if they have not reached that terrible point.  Nocturnal vigils, fastings, and prayers have affected his health.  He has denied himself sufficient rest, and has only partaken of food barely sufficient to sustain nature, and no more.  The consequence has been that strange fancies have troubled his brain; that at dead of night, when alone in his chamber, he has imagined that visions have appeared to him; that voices have spoken—­awful voices—­talking of prophecies, lamentations, and judgments, and charging him with a mighty and terrible mission.  All these things I have heard from his own lips, and I have heard and seen much more, which has satisfied me that his intellects are disordered, and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions.”

“If such be the case, he should have been kept under restraint, and not suffered to go abroad,” said Sir Thomas.  “Such madmen are highly mischievous and dangerous.  Much blame rests with you, maiden.”

“The whole blame is mine!” she exclaimed.  “I confess my error—­my crime—­and will atone for it willingly with my life, provided he be spared.  If a sacrifice must be made, let me be the victim.”

“There is no sacrifice, and no victim,” returned Sir Thomas gravely, though he was not unmoved by her filial devotion.  “There is an offender, and there will be justice; and justice must be satisfied.  Inexorable as fate, her dread sentences cannot be averted.”

“O, honourable Sir! you may one day recall those words; for which of us can hold himself free from offence?  My father is not guilty in the eyes of Heaven; or if he be, I am equally culpable, since I ought to have prevented the commission of the crime.  O, I shall never forgive myself that I did not follow him when he parted from me yesterday!”