"Sir," she cried, "you are indelicate as well as impertinent. You have no right to intrude upon me without warning."
"The urgency of our mission is our excuse, madam," said Blake. "The fact is, madam, to come to the point, the gentleman who visited you just now is our friend."
"Your friend, sir, is a scoundrel. He grossly insulted me," said Mrs. Siddons.
"Ah,'t is sorry I am to find you do n't yet understand the impulses of a warmhearted nation, madam," said Blake, shaking his head. "The gentleman came to compliment you on your acting, and yet you drove him from your door like a hound. That, according to our warmhearted Irish ways, constitutes an offence that must be washed out in blood--ay, blood, madam."
"I only mean, madam, that your husband, whom we all honour on account of the genius--we do n't deny it--the genius and virtue of his wife, will have to meet the most expert swordsman in Ireland in the Phonix Park in the morning, and that Sarah Siddons will be a widow before breakfast time."
There was a pause before there came a cry of anguish more pitiful than any expression of emotion that the three youths had ever heard.
"My husband!" were the words that sounded like a sob in their ears.
Mrs. Siddons had averted her head. Her face was buried in her hands. The wink in which Jimmy Blake indulged as he gave Moriarty a nudge was anything but natural.
"Why was I ever tempted to come to this country?" cried the lady wildly.
"Madam, we humbly sympathise with you, and with the country," said Blake. He would not allow any reflection to be cast on his country.
She took a few steps toward the three young men, and faced them with clasped hands. She looked into the three faces in turn, with passionate intreaty in her eyes. "Have you no pity?" she faltered.
"Yes," said Blake, "that we have; we do pity you heartily, madam."
"Are you willing to take part in this act of murder--murder?" cried Mrs. Siddons, in a low voice that caused the flesh of at least two of her audience to creep. "Are you blind? Can 't you see the world pointing at you as I point at you, and call you murderers?" She stood before them with her eyes half closed, her right hand pointing to each of them in turn as she prolonged the word, suggesting a thousand voices whispering "murderers!" There was a long pause, during which the spell-bound youths, their jaws fallen, stared at that terrible figure--the awful form of the Muse of Tragedy. Drops of perspiration stood on the forehead of young Moriarty. Blake himself gave a gasp. "Have you no compassion?" Mrs. Sid-dons continued, but in another tone--a tone of such pathos as no human being could hear unmoved. Clasping her hands, she cried: "My poor husband! What harm has he done? Is he to be dragged from these arms--these arms that have cherished him with all the devotion that a too-loving wife can offer? Is he to be dragged away from this true heart to be butchered? Sirs, we have children--tender little blossoms. Oh, cannot you hear their cries? Listen, listen--the wailing of the babes over the mangled body of their father."