“And he will die too.  Be not hasty, Miss Colleton—­remember—­it is not merely your death but his—­his death upon the gallows—­”

“Spare me! spare me!”

“The halter—­the crowd—­the distorted limb—­the racked frame—­”

“Horrible—­horrible!”

“Would you see this—­know this, and reflect upon the shame, the mental agony, far greater than all, of such a death to him?”

With a strong effort, she recovered her composure, though but an instant before almost convulsed—­

“Have you no other terms, Mr. Rivers?”

“None—­none.  Accept them, and he lives—­I will free him, as I promise.  Refuse them—­deny me, and he must die, and nothing may save him then.”

“Then he must die, sir!—­we must both die—­before we choose such terms.  Sir, let me call my father.  Our conference must end here.  You have chosen a cruel office, but I can bear its infliction.  You have tantalized a weak heart with hope, only to make it despair the more.  But I am now strong, sir—­stronger than ever—­and we speak no more on this subject.”

“Yet pause—­to relent even to-morrow may be too late.  To-night you must determine, or never.”

“I have already determined.  It is impossible that I can determine otherwise.  No more, sir!”

“There is one, lady—­one young form—­scarcely less beautiful than yourself, who would make the same—­ay, and a far greater—­sacrifice than this, for the safety of Ralph Colleton.  One far less happy in his love than you, who would willingly die for him this hour.  Would you be less ready than she is for such a sacrifice?”

“No, not less ready for death—­as I live—­not less willing to free him with the loss of my own life.  But not ready for a sacrifice like this—­not ready for this.”

“You have doomed him!”

“Be it so, sir.  Be it so.  Let me now call my father.”

“Yet think, ere it be too late—­once gone, not even your words shall call me back.”

“Believe me, I shall not desire it.”

The firmness of the maiden was finely contrasted with the disappointment of the outlaw.  He was not less mortified with his own defeat than awed by the calm and immoveable bearing, the sweet, even dignity, which the discussion of a subject so trying to her heart, and the overthrow of all hope which her own decision must have occasioned, had failed utterly to affect.  He would have renewed his suggestions, but while repeating them, a sudden commotion in the village—­the trampling of feet—­the buzz of many voices, and sounds of wide-spread confusion, contributed to abridge an interview already quite too long.  The outlaw rushed out of the apartment, barely recognising, at his departure, the presence of Colonel Colleton, whom his daughter had now called in.  The cause of the uproar we reserve for another chapter.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

PROPOSED RESCUE.