“Doubt me not, uncle:  I rave no longer.  I am now calm—­calm as it is possible for me to be, having such a sorrow as mine struggling at my heart.  Why should I hide it from you?  It will not be hidden.  I love him—­love him as woman never loved man before—­with a soul and spirit all unreservedly his, and with no thought in which he is not always the principal.  I know that he loves another; I know that the passion which I feel I must feel and cherish alone; that it must burn itself away, though it burn away its dwelling-place.  I am resigned to such a fate; but I am not prepared for more.  I can not bear that he too should die—­and such a death!  He must not die—­he must not die, my uncle; though we save him—­ay, save him—­for another.”

“Shame on you, my daughter!—­how can you confess so much?  Think on your sex—­you are a woman—­think on your youth!” Such was the somewhat strongly-worded rebuke of the old lady.

“I have thought on all—­on everything.  I feel all that you have said, and the thought and the feeling have been my madness.  I must speak, or I shall again go mad.  I am not the tame and cold creature that the world calls woman.  I have been differently made.  I can love in the world’s despite.  I can feel through the world’s freeze.  I can dare all, when my soul is in it, though the world sneer in scorn and contempt.  But what I have said, is said to you.  I would not—­no, not for worlds, that he should know I said it—­not for worlds!” and her cheeks were tinged slightly, while her head rested for a single instant upon the pillow.

“But all this is nothing!” she started up, and again addressed herself to the landlord.  “Speak, uncle! tell me, is there yet time—­yet time to save him I When is it they say he must die?”

“On Friday next, at noon.”

“And this—?”

“Is Monday.”

“He must not die—­no, not die, then, my uncle! You must save him—­you must save him!  You have been the cause of his doom:  you must preserve him from its execution.  You owe it him as a debt—­you owe it me—­you owe it to yourself.  Believe not, my uncle, that there is no other day than this—­no other world—­no other penalties than belong to this.  You read no bible, but you have a thought which must tell you that there are worlds—­there is a life yet to come.  I know you can not doubt—­you must not doubt—­you must believe.  Have a fear of its punishments, have a hope of its rewards, and listen to my prayer.  You must save Ralph Colleton; ask me not how—­talk not of difficulties.  You must save him—­you must—­you must!”

“Why, you forget, Lucy, my dear child—­you forget that I too am in danger.  This is midnight:  it is only at this hour that I can steal into the village; and how, and in what manner, shall I be able to do as you require?”