“John!” she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud:  “oh, you must be mad, John.”

“As mad as a March hare,” said I, “without any news of my darling.  You knew I would come:  of course you did.”

“Well, I thought, perhaps—­you know:  now, John, you need not eat my hand.  Do you see they have put iron bars across?”

“To be sure.  Do you think I should be contented, even with this lovely hand, but for these vile iron bars.  I will have them out before I go.  Now, darling, for one moment—­just the other hand, for a change, you know.”

So I got the other, but was not honest; for I kept them both, and felt their delicate beauty trembling, as I laid them to my heart.

“Oh, John, you will make me cry directly”—­she had been crying long ago—­“if you go on in that way.  You know we can never have one another; every one is against it.  Why should I make you miserable?  Try not to think of me any more.”

“And will you try the same of me, Lorna?”

“Oh yes, John; if you agree to it.  At least I will try to try it.”

“Then you won’t try anything of the sort,” I cried with great enthusiasm, for her tone was so nice and melancholy:  “the only thing we will try to try, is to belong to one another.  And if we do our best, Lorna, God alone can prevent us.”

She crossed herself, with one hand drawn free as I spoke so boldly; and something swelled in her little throat, and prevented her from answering.

“Now tell me,” I said; “what means all this?  Why are you so pent up here?  Why have you given me no token?  Has your grandfather turned against you?  Are you in any danger?”

“My poor grandfather is very ill:  I fear that he will not live long.  The Counsellor and his son are now the masters of the valley; and I dare not venture forth, for fear of anything they might do to me.  When I went forth, to signal for you, Carver tried to seize me; but I was too quick for him.  Little Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley now; so that I could send no message.  I have been so wretched, dear, lest you should think me false to you.  The tyrants now make sure of me.  You must watch this house, both night and day, if you wish to save me.  There is nothing they would shrink from; if my poor grandfather—­oh, I cannot bear to think of myself, when I ought to think of him only; dying without a son to tend him, or a daughter to shed a tear.”

“But surely he has sons enough; and a deal too many,” I was going to say, but stopped myself in time:  “why do none of them come to him?”

“I know not.  I cannot tell.  He is a very strange old man; and few have ever loved him.  He was black with wrath at the Counsellor, this very afternoon—­but I must not keep you here—­you are much too brave, John; and I am much too selfish:  there, what was that shadow?”

“Nothing more than a bat, darling, come to look for his sweetheart.  I will not stay long; you tremble so:  and yet for that very reason, how can I leave you, Lorna?”