“And will you not love her whom you are now about to wed?”

“Not as much as I have loved you—­not half so much as I love you now—­if it be that I have such a feeling at this moment in my bosom.”

“And wherefore then would you wed, Guy, with one whom you do not, whom you can not love?  In what have I offended—­have I ever reproached or looked unkindly on you, Guy, even when you came to me, stern and full of reproaches, chafed with all things and with everybody?”

“There are motives, Ellen, governing my actions into which you must not inquire—­”

“What, not inquire, when on these actions depend all my hope—­all my life!  Now indeed you are the tyrant which my old mother said, and all people say, you are.”

The girl for a moment forgot her submissiveness, and her words were tremulous, less with sorrow than the somewhat strange spirit which her wrongs had impressed upon her.  But sue soon felt the sinking of the momentary inspiration, and quickly sought to remove the angry scowl which she perceived coming over the brow of her companion.

“Nay, nay—­forgive me, Guy—­let me not reproach—­let me not accuse you.  I have not done so before:  I would not do so now.  Do with me as you please; and yet, if you are bent to wed with another, and forget and overlook your wrongs to me, there is one kindness which would become your hands, and which I would joy to receive from them.  Will you do for me this kindness, Guy?  Nay, now be not harsh, but say that you will do it.”

She seized his hand appealingly as she spoke, and her moist but untearful eyes were fixed pleadingly upon his own.  The outlaw hesitated for a moment before he replied.

“I propose, Ellen, to do for you all that may be necessary—­to provide you with additional comforts, and carry you to a place of additional security, where you shall live to yourself, and have good attendance.”

“This is kind—­this is much, Guy; but not much more than you have been accustomed to do for me.  That which I seek from you now is something more than this; promise me that it shall be as I say.”

“If it breaks not into my arrangements—­if it makes me not go aside from my path, I will certainly do it, Ellen.  Speak, therefore; what is it I can do for you?”

“It will interfere with none of your arrangements, Guy, I am sure; it can not take you from your path, for you could not have provided for that of which you knew not.  I have your pledge, therefore—­have I not?”

“You have,” was the reply, while the manner of Rivers was tinctured with something like curiosity.

“That is kind—­that is as you ought to be.  Hear me now, then,” and her voice sunk into a whisper, as if she feared the utterance of her own words; “take your knife, Guy—­pause not, do it quickly, lest I fear and tremble—­strike it deep into the bosom of the poor Ellen, and lay her beside the cold parent, whose counsels she despised, and all of whose predictions are now come true.  Strike—­strike quickly, Guy Rivers; I have your promise—­you can not recede; if you have honor, if you have truth, you must do as I ask.  Give me death—­give me peace.”