“Broken it shall never be by me!” cried Richard.

“But I tell you it will be broken, if you do not desist at once,” rejoined Nicholas.  “I was but jesting when I said I would rob you of her in the Morisco, though it would be charity to both, and spare you many a pang hereafter, were I to put my threat into execution.  However, I have a soft heart where aught of love is concerned, and, having pointed out the risk you will incur, I shall leave you to follow your own devices.  But, for Alizon’s sake, stop in time.”

“You now speak soberly and sensibly enough, Nicholas,” replied Richard, “and I thank you heartily for your counsel; and if I do not follow it by withdrawing at once from a pursuit which may appear to you hopeless, if not dangerous, you will, I hope, give me credit for being actuated by worthy motives.  I will at once, and frankly admit, that I love Alizon; and loving her, you may rest assured I would sacrifice my life a thousand times rather than endanger her happiness.  But there is a point in her history, with which if you were acquainted, it might alter your view of the case; but this is not the season for its disclosure, neither, I am bound to say, does the circumstance so materially alter the apparent posture of affairs as to remove all difficulty.  On the contrary, it leaves an insurmountable obstacle behind it.”

“Are you wise, then, in going on?” asked Nicholas.

“I know not,” answered Richard, “but I feel as if I were the sport of fate.  Uncertain whither to turn for the best, I leave the disposition of my course to chance.  But, alas!” he added, sadly, “all seems to point out that this meeting with Alizon will be my last.”

“Well, cheer up, lad,” said Nicholas.  “These afflictions are hard to bear, it is true; but somehow they are got over.  Just as if your horse should fling you in the midst of a hedge when you are making a flying leap, you get scratched and bruised, but you scramble out, and in a day or two are on your legs again.  Love breaks no bones, that’s one comfort.  When at your age, I was desperately in love, not with Mistress Nicholas Assheton—­Heaven help the fond soul! but with—­never mind with whom; but it was not a very prudent match, and so, in my worldly wisdom, I was obliged to cry off.  A sad business it was.  I thought I should have died of it, and I made quite sure that the devoted girl would die first, in which case we were to occupy the same grave.  But I was not driven to such a dire extremity, for before I had kept house a week, Jack Walker, the keeper of Downham, made his appearance in my room, and after telling me of the mischief done by a pair of otters in the Ribble, finding me in a very desponding state, ventured to inquire if I had heard the news.  Expecting to hear of the death of the girl, I prepared myself for an outburst of grief, and resolved to give immediate directions for a double funeral, when he informed me—­what do you think, Dick?—­that