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 her sighs, her groans, rather, were more eloquent than any words.

"Bind the priest!" the commissary cried. "His trial is over; bind the traitor, and take him to the cell for execution."

The Marchioness sunk to the floor.

"No!" cried Juliet, "bind him not! Touch not his reverend and revered person!—Give me the paper! I will sign what you please! I will go whither you will!"

"Come, then," cried the commissary, "to the mayoralty."

Juliet covered her face, but moved towards the door.

The Bishop, hitherto passive and meekly resigned, now, with a sudden effort of strength, repulsing his gaolers, while fire darted from his eyes, and a spirit of command animated all his features, exclaimed, "No, generous Juliet! my own excellent child, no! Are a few years more or less,—perhaps but a few minutes,—worth purchasing by the