"OH, Miss Helen, how can you say that?" cried Nancy, in utter dismay.
"I'll lay my life poor Joe never did such wickedness."
But Helen waved her off without looking at her, and pointed at Wylie.
"Are you blind? Why does he cringe and cower at sight of me? I tell you he scuttled the _Proserpine,_ and the great auger he did it with I have seen and handled. Yes, sir, you destroyed a ship, and the lives of many innocent persons, whose blood now cries to Heaven against you; and if _I_ am alive to tell the cruel tale, it is no thanks to you; for you did your best to kill me, and, what is worse, to kill Robert Penfold, this gentleman's son; for he was on board the ship. You are no better than an assassin."
"I am a man that's down," said Wylie, in a low and broken voice, hanging his head. "Don't hit me any more. I didn't mean to take anybody's life. I took my chance with the rest, lady, as I'm a man. I have lain in my bed many's the night, crying like a child, with thinking you were dead. And now I am glad you are alive to be revenged on me. Well, you see, it is your turn now; you have lost me my sweetheart, there; she'll never speak to me again, after this. Ah, the poor man gets all the blame! You don't ask who tempted me; and, if I was to tell you, you'd hate me worse than ever; so I'll belay. If I'm a sinner, I'm a sufferer. England's too hot to hold me. I've only to go to sea, and get drowned the quickest way."
And with this he vented a deep sigh, and slouched out of the room.
Nancy sank into a seat, and threw her apron over her head, and rocked and sobbed as if her heart would break.
As for Helen Rolleston, she still stood in the middle of the room, burning with excitement.
Then poor old Michael came to her, and said, almost in a whisper:
"It is a bad business; he is her sweetheart, and she had the highest opinion of him."
This softened Helen in a great measure. She turned and looked at Nancy, and said:
"Oh, dear, what a miserable thing! But I couldn't know that."
After a while, she drew a chair, and sat down by Nancy, and said:
"I won't _punish_ him, Nancy."
Nancy burst out sobbing afresh.
"You have punished him," said she, bruskly, "and me, too, as never did you no harm. You have driven him out of the country, you have."
At this piece of feminine justice Helen's anger revived. "So, then," said she, "ships are to be destroyed, and ladies and gentlemen murdered, and nobody is to complain, or say an angry word, if the wretch happens to be paying his addresses to you. That makes up for all the crimes in the world. What! Can an honest woman like you lose all sense of right and wrong for a man? And such a man!"
"Why, he is as well-made a fellow as ever I saw," sobbed Nancy.
"Oh, is he?" said Helen, ironically--her views of manly beauty were different, and black eyes a _sine qua non_ with her--"then it is a pity his soul is not made to correspond. I hope by my next visit you will have learned to despise him as you ought. Why, if I loved a man ever so, I'd tear him out of my heart if he committed a crime; ay, though I tore my soul out of my body to do it."
"No, you wouldn't," said Nancy, recovering some of her natural pugnacity;
"for we are all tarred with the same stick, gentle or ******."
"But I assure you I would," cried Helen; "and so ought you."
