Carmen shook her head, and with that peculiar mixture of pride and child-like humility which marked her character, she bowed herself submissively before her faithful admonisher.

“Forgive me, dear Sister Agatha,” she pleaded, embracing her fondly; “forgive me if I am constrained to speak in a manner that you think is wrong; but I can retract nothing of what I have said.  Let me go to my father; he is my natural protector, and he alone has the right to dispose of me.”

She avoided looking at Jonathan again; it seemed as if this new trouble must, in some way, have originated with him; and every pure, womanly instinct of her nature felt insulted.  Gently unclasping her arms from Agatha’s neck, she left the room.  It was not possible to remain longer in the house; something impelled her to get out into the fresh air, by that means to throw off, if possible, some subtle influence which seemed to be weaving a spell over her.

As she hurried along, dark clouds began to scud across the sky overhead, and the low mutterings of thunder came from the distance.  It may have been the thunderings of nature, or of war—­she did not heed them; her heart was filled with bitter, rebellious thoughts, and her flying feet seemed to skim over the road; nor did she check her hasty steps until she was about to enter her father’s room.  Mauer sat in his arm-chair, absorbed in thought.  She threw herself down on her knees beside him, and flung her arms about his waist.  Pressing her head against his breast, she said half breathlessly:  “Father, protect me!”

He looked at his daughter with a bewildered air.  Only one hour ago so gay and light-hearted, and now so utterly unnerved, crouching in despair at his feet!  Raising her up, he gazed into her pale countenance.

“Heavens above! what has befallen you, my child?”

“Father, they have cast lots for your child!”

“Cast lots?”

“Yes; cast lots, as for a thing that does not live and feel—­a toy, that has no will of its own, no self-respect; given as a prize to a man who is nothing to me.  And it is all done in the name of religion!  Father, protect me!”

“Cast lots!” the old man repeated, as if his brain could not grasp what his ear heard.  “No!  Heaven forbid that such a misfortune, should befall you!  It is enough that one of us has suffered and lived through such an ordeal.  No, Carmen, be at rest, my darling.  Your father will tell the elders that he cannot do without his child.”

The faintest shadow of a smile appeared again on Carmen’s lips as she listened to his comforting words, and she breathed more freely.

“I knew you would help me, my own dear father!  I rejected the choice, and hastened to you for support.”

“But for whom have they selected you as a wife?” asked Mauer, gently stroking her cheek.

“For Daniel Becker, the missionary who, six months ago, went to the land of the Caffres.  Oh, father, you will not let me go from you?  We will remain together; no one shall separate us—­not even this Jonathan—­” She involuntarily shuddered.  At mention of that name the old man started and fixed his eyes on her.