“Be careful!” she whispered, warningly; “guards are all around, and listeners.  Be careful!  If you can think of a way of escape, do so.”

Dacres rubbed his hand over his forehead.

“Am I dreaming?” said he; “or is it all true?  A while ago I was suffering from some hideous vision; yet now you say you forgive me!”

Mrs. Willoughby saw in this a sign of returning delirium.  “But the poor fellow must be humored, I suppose,” she thought.

“Oh, there is nothing for me to forgive,” said she.

“But if there were any thing, would you?”

“Yes.”

“Freely?” he cried, with a strong emphasis.

“Yes, freely.”

“Oh, could you answer me one more question?  Oh, could you?”

“No, no; not now—­not now, I entreat you,” said Mrs. Willoughby, in nervous dread.  She was afraid that his delirium would bring him upon delicate ground, and she tried to hold him back.

“But I must ask you,” said Dacres, trembling fearfully—­“I must—­now or never.  Tell me my doom; I have suffered so much.  Oh, Heavens!  Answer me.  Can you?  Can you feel toward me as you once did?”

“He’s utterly mad,” thought Mrs. Willoughby; “but he’ll get worse if I don’t soothe him.  Poor fellow!  I ought to answer him.”

“Yes,” she said, in a low voice.

“Oh, my darling!” murmured Dacres, in rapture inexpressible; “my darling!” he repeated; and grasping Mrs. Willoughby’s hand, he pressed it to his lips.  “And you will love me again—­you will love me?”

Mrs. Willoughby paused.  The man was mad, but the ground was so dangerous!  Yes, she must humor him.  She felt his hot kisses on her hand.

“You will—­you will love me, will you not?” he repeated.  “Oh, answer me!  Answer me, or I shall die!”

“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Willoughby, faintly.

As she said this a cold chill passed through her.  But it was too late.  Dacres’s arms were around her.  He had drawn her to him, and pressed her against his breast, and she felt hot tears upon her head.

“Oh, Arethusa!” cried Dacres.

“Well,” said Mrs. Willoughby, as soon as she could extricate herself, “there’s a mistake, you know.”

“A mistake, darling?”

“Oh dear, what shall I do?” thought Mrs. Willoughby; “he’s beginning again.  I must stop this, and bring him to his senses.  How terrible it is to humor a delirious man!”

“Oh, Arethusa!” sighed Dacres once more.

Mrs. Willoughby arose.

“I’m not Arethusa at all,” said she; “that isn’t my name.  If you can shake off your delirium, I wish you would.  I really do.”

“What!” cried Dacres, in amazement.

“I’m not Arethusa at all; that isn’t my name.”

“Not your name?”

“No; my name’s Kitty.”

“Kitty!” cried Dacres, starting to his feet.

At that instant the report of a gun burst upon their ears, followed by another and another; then there were wild calls and loud shouts.  Other guns were heard.