The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the door leading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move.  I was deeply affected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the flogging if to do so should cost Sir George’s life at my hands.  I would have killed him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip upon Dorothy’s back.

“Father,” continued the terrible girl, “are you not going to flog me?  Remember your oaths.  Surely you would not be forsworn before God and upon your knighthood.  A forsworn Christian?  A forsworn knight?  A forsworn Vernon?  The lash, father, the lash—­I am eager for it.”

Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward the door.  Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, and she whispered the words, “Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!”

As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his arms toward her and in a wail of agony cried:  “Doll!  Doll!  My daughter!  My child!  God help me!”

He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment as the tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbing forth the anguish of which his soul was full.

In an instant Dorothy was by her father’s side holding his head upon her lap.  She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamed from her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.

“I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all.  I will give him up; I will see him never again.  I will try not to love him.  Oh, father, forgive me, forgive me.  I will never again deceive you so long as I live.”

Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken.  When one swears to do too much, one performs too little.

I helped Sir George rise to his feet.

Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but he repulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her name quitted the room with tottering steps.

When her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, and then looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, she spoke as if to herself:  “He does not know.  How fortunate!”

“But you said you would tell him,” I suggested.  “You said you would give him up.”

Dorothy was in a deep revery.  She took her bodice from the floor and mechanically put it on.

“I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give—­give him up,” she replied; “but I will do neither.  Father would not meet my love with love.  He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance when it was he who should have repented.  I was alarmed and grieved for father’s sake when I said that I would tell him about—­about John, and would give him up.”  She was silent and thoughtful for a little time.  “Give him up?” she cried defiantly.  “No, not for my soul;