“No!” Her thoughts had turned in a new direction. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. " "What's that?" asked Wood with some curiosity. There you will be, in an inner temple. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets.
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