only virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, would willingly bear false witness for her sake.  She was right.  I had caught the truth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined to perjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy.  I cannot describe the influence this girl at times exerted over me.  When under its spell I seemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily was paralyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality.  I cannot describe it.  I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you may make out of it whatever you can.  I shall again in the course of this history have occasion to speak of Dorothy’s strange power, and how it was exerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.

“Ask Malcolm,” repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father’s breast.  But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for, in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demanded excitedly of Dorothy, “What have you in your pocket that strikes against my knee?”

“Mother of Heaven!” exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping back from her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward her pocket.  Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness by sudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face which filled my heart with pity.  She stood during a long tedious moment holding with one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched the key in her pocket.

“What have you in your pocket?” demanded Sir George with a terrible oath.  “Bring it out, girl.  Bring it out, I tell you.”  Dorothy started to run from the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drew her to him.  “Bring it out, huzzy; it’s the key to Bowling Green Gate.  Ah, I’ve lost my mind, have I?  Blood of Christ!  I have not lost my mind yet, but I soon shall lose it at this rate,” and he certainly looked as if he would.

Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, but she was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown and tore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom.  Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece of white paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made in the gown.  He divined the truth as if by inspiration.  The note, he felt sure, was from Dorothy’s unknown lover.  He did not move nor speak for a time, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear.  She slowly turned her face from her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, “Malcolm.”  Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help I have never heard from human lips.  Then she stooped, intending to take the letter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he would strike her with his clenched hand.  She recoiled from him in terror, and he took up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:—­