“You have not heard me out.  There is another way.  I know those who will aid me.  We can meet in early dawn, be wedded in one of these churches in all secrecy and haste, and I would carry you at once to my uncle, who, as you well know, would welcome you as a daughter.  Or, better still, we would to those fair lands I have scarce seen, but where I could make my way with sword or pen with you to inspire me.  I have the means.  My uncle left this with me.  Speak!  It is death or life to me.”

This last proposal was thoroughly alarming, and Anne retreated, drawing herself to her full height, and speaking with the dignity that concealed considerable terror.

“No, indeed, sir.  You ought to know better than to utter such proposals.  One who can make such schemes can certainly obtain no respect nor regard from the lady he addresses.  Let me pass”—­for she was penned up in the bay window—­“I shall seek the landlady till my uncle returns.”

“Nay, Mistress Anne, do not fear me.  Do not drive me to utter despair.  Oh, pardon me!  Nothing but utter desperation could drive me to have thus spoken; but how can I help using every effort to win her whose very look and presence is bliss!  Nothing else soothes and calms me; nothing else so silences the demon and wakens the better part of my nature.  Have you no pity upon a miserable wretch, who will be dragged down to his doom without your helping hand?”

He flung himself on his knee before her, and tried to grasp her hand.

“Indeed, I am sorry for you, Master Oakshott,” said Anne, compassionate, but still retreating as far as the window would let her; “but you are mistaken.  If this power be in me, which I cannot quite believe—­yes, I see what you want to say, but if I did what I know to be wrong, I should lose it at once; God’s grace can save you without me.”

“I will not ask you to do what you call wrong; no, nor to transgress any of the ties you respect, you, whose home is so unlike mine; only tell me that I may have hope, that if I deserve you, I may win you; that you could grant me—­wretched me—­a share of your affection.”

This was hardest of all; mingled pity and repugnance, truth and compassion strove within the maiden as well as the strange influence of those extraordinary eyes.  She was almost as much afraid of herself as of her suitor.  At last she managed to say, “I am very sorry for you; I grieve from my heart for your troubles; I should be very glad to hear of your welfare and anything good of you, but—­”

“But, but—­I see—­it is mere frenzy in me to think the blighted elf can aspire to be aught but loathsome to any lady—­only, at least, tell me you love no one else.”

“No, certainly not,” she said, as if his eyes drew it forcibly from her.

“Then you cannot hinder me from making you my guiding star—­hoping that if yet I can—­”

“There’s my uncle!” exclaimed Anne, in a tone of infinite relief.  “Stand up, Mr. Oakshott, compose yourself.  Of course I cannot hinder your thinking about me, if it will do you any good, but there are better things to think about which would conquer evil and make you happy more effectually.”