“Ah, Edith Colleton, these words would have saved me once—­now they are nothing, in recompense for the hopes which are for ever gone.  Your thoughts are gentle, and may sooth all spirits but my own.  But sounds that lull others, lull me no longer.  It is not the music of a rich dream, or of a pleasant fancy, which may beguile me into pleasure.  I am dead—­dead as the cold rock—­to their influence.  The storm which blighted me has seared, and ate into the very core.  I am like the tree through which the worm has travelled—­it still stands, and there is foliage upon it, but the heart is eaten out and gone.  Your words touch me no longer as they did—­I need something more than words and mere flatteries—­flatteries so sweet even as those which come from your lips—­are no longer powerful to bind me to your service.  I can save the youth—­I will save him, though I hate him; but the conditions are fatal to your love for him.”

There was much in this speech to offend and annoy the hearer; but she steeled herself to listen, and it cost her some effort to reply.

“I can listen—­I can hear all that you may say having reference to him.  I know not what you may intend; I know not what you may demand for your service.  But name your condition.  All in honor—­all that a maiden may grant and be true to herself, all—­all, for his life and safety.”

“Still, I fear, Miss Colleton—­your love for him is not sufficiently lavish to enable your liberality to keep pace with the extravagance of my demand—­”

“Hold, sir—­on this particular there is no need of further speech.  Whatever may be the extent of my regard for Ralph, it is enough that I am willing to do much, to sacrifice much—­in return for his rescue from this dreadful fate.  Speak, therefore, your demand—­spare no word—­delay me, I pray, no longer.”

“Hear me, then.  As Creighton, I loved you years ago—­as Guy Rivers I love you still.  The life of Ralph Colleton is forfeit—­for ever forfeit—­and a few days only interpose between him and eternity.  I alone can save him—­I can give him freedom; and, in doing so, I shall risk much, and sacrifice not a little.  I am ready for this risk—­I am prepared for every sacrifice—­I will save him at all hazards from his doom, upon one condition!”

“Speak! speak!”

“That you be mine—­that you fly with me—­that in the wild regions of the west, where I will build you a cottage and worship you as my own forest divinity, you take up your abode with me, and be my wife.  My wife!—­all forms shall be complied with, and every ceremony which society may call for.  Nay, shrink not back thus—­” seeing her recoil in horror and scorn at the suggestion—­“beware how you defy me—­think, that I have his life in my hands—­think, that I can speak his doom or his safety—­think, before you reply!”

“There is no time necessary for thought, sir—­none—­none.  It can not be.  I can not comply with the conditions which you propose.  I would die first.”