"Strike," said she, "strike here a wretch, whose misery cannot end
but with that death she deserves."
Her hair had fallen on her shoulders! her look had the horrid
calmness of out-breathed despair! Her father would have spoken; his
lip quivered, his cheek grew pale, his eyes lost the lightning of
their fury! there was a reproach in them, but with a mingling of
pity. He turned them up to heaven, then on his daughter. He laid
his left hand on his heart, the sword dropped from his right, he
burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXIX--THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER
Harley kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate daughter.
"Allow me, sir," said he, "to entreat your pardon for one whose
offences have been already so signally punished. I know, I feel,
that those tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more
dreadful to her than all the punishments your sword could have
inflicted: accept the contrition of a child whom heaven has
restored to you."
"Is she not lost," answered he, "irrecoverably lost? Damnation! a
common prostitute to the meanest ruffian!"
"Calmly, my dear sir," said Harley, "did you know by what
complicated misfortunes she had fallen to that miserable state in
which you now behold her, I should have no need of words to excite
your compassion.
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