“Nothing—­we know nothing,” falters Dawson. “’Tis all mystery and darkness.  Only we did suppose to find happiness a-wandering about the country, dancing and idling, as we did before.”

“That dream was never hers,” answers the Don.  “She never thought to find happiness in idling pleasure.  ’Tis the joy of martyrdom she’s gone to find, seeking redemption in self-sacrifice.”

“Be more explicit, sir, I pray,” says I.

“In a word, then, she has gone to offer herself as a ransom for the real Judith Godwin.”

We were too overwrought for great astonishment; indeed, my chief surprise was that I had not foreseen this event in Moll’s desire to return to Elche, or hit upon the truth in seeking an explanation of her disappearance.  ’Twas of a piece with her natural romantic disposition and her newly awaked sense of poetic justice,—­for here at one stroke she makes all human atonement for her fault and ours,—­earning her husband’s forgiveness by this proof of dearest love, and winning back for ever an honoured place in his remembrance.  And I bethought me of our Lord’s saying that greater love is there none than this:  that one shall lay down his life for another.

For some time Dawson stood silent, his arms folded upon his breast, and his head bent in meditation, his lips pressed together, and every muscle in his face contracted with pain and labouring thought.  Then, raising his head and fixing his eyes on the Don, he says: 

“If I understand aright, my Moll hath gone to give herself up for a slave, in the place of her whose name she took.”

The Don assents with a grave inclination of his head, and Dawson continues: 

“I ask your pardon for that injustice I did you in my passion; but now that I am cool I cannot hold you blameless for what has befallen my poor child, and I call upon you as a man of honour to repair the wrong you’ve done me.”

Again the Don bows very gravely, and then asks what we would have him do.

“I ask you,” says Dawson, “as we have no means for such an expedition, to send me across the sea there to my Moll.”

“I cannot ensure your return,” says the Don, “and I warn you that once in Barbary you may never leave it.”

“I do not want to return if she is there; nay,” adds he, “if I may move them to any mercy, they shall do what they will with this body of mine, so that they suffer my child to be free.”

The Don turns to Sidi, and tells him what Dawson has offered to do; whereupon the Moor lays his finger across his lips, then his hand on Dawson’s breast, and afterwards upon his own, with a reverence, to show his respect.  And so he and the Don fall to discussing the feasibility of this project (as I discovered by picking up a word here and there); and, this ended, the Don turns to Dawson, and tells him there is no vessel to convey him at present, wherefore he must of force wait patiently till one comes in from Barbary.