“My Lord, you have taught me how wise my holy father was in forbidding me to listen to you.  He knew better than I how weak was my heart, and how I might be drawn on from step to step till——­My Lord, I must be no man’s wife.  I follow the blessed Saint Agnes.  May God give me grace to keep my vows without wavering!—­for then I shall gain power to intercede for you and bring down blessings on your soul.  Oh, never, never speak to me so again, my Lord!—­you will make me very, very unhappy.  If there is any truth in your words, my Lord, if you really love me, you will go, and you will never try to speak to me again.”

“Never, Agnes? never?  Think what you are saying!”

“Oh, I do think!  I know it must be best,” said Agnes, much agitated; “for, if I should see you often and hear your voice, I should lose all my strength.  I could never resist, and I should lose heaven for you and me too.  Leave me, and I will never, never forget to pray for you; and go quickly too, for it is time for my grandmother to come home, and she would be so angry,—­she would never believe I had not been doing wrong, and perhaps she would make me marry somebody that I do not wish to.  She has threatened that many times; but I beg her to leave me free to go to my sweet home in the convent and my dear Mother Theresa.”

“They shall never marry you against your will, little Agnes, I pledge you my knightly word.  I will protect you from that.  Promise me, dear, that, if ever you be man’s wife, you will be mine.  Only promise me that, and I will go.”

“Will you?” said Agnes, in an ecstasy of fear and apprehension, in which there mingled some strange troubled gleams of happiness.  “Well, then, I will.  Ah!  I hope it is no sin.”

“Believe me, dearest, it is not,” said the knight.  “Say it again,—­say, that I may hear it,—­say, ’If ever I am man’s wife, I will be thine,’—­say it, and I will go.”

“Well, then, my Lord, if ever I am man’s wife, I will be thine,” said Agnes.  “But I will be no man’s wife.  My heart and hand are promised elsewhere.  Come, now, my Lord, your word must be kept.”

“Let me put this ring on your finger, lest you forget,” said the cavalier.  “It was my mother’s ring, and never during her lifetime heard anything but prayers and hymns.  It is saintly, and worthy of thee.”

“No, my Lord, I may not.  Grandmother would inquire about it.  I cannot keep it; but fear not my forgetting:  I shall never forget you.”

“Will you ever want to see me, Agnes?”

“I hope not, since it is not best.  But you do not go.”

“Well, then, farewell, my little wife! farewell, till I claim thee!” said the cavalier, as he kissed her hand, and vaulted over the wall.