At length, when Dorothy persisted in her silence, he stood back from her and spoke with his head proudly raised.  “I will say no more,” he said; “I have come here to keep my solemn promise, and be married to you, and here I will remain until you or your father bid me go, with something more than silence.  That may be enough for my pride, but ’tis not enough for my honor.  I will go back to your father’s study, Dorothy, and wait there until you speak and tell me what you wish.”

Burr turned to go, but Parson Fair thrust out his arm before him to stop him, and himself came forward and grasped Dorothy, with hardly a gentle hand, by a slender arm.  “Daughter,” said Parson Fair in a voice which Dorothy had never heard from his lips except when he addressed wayward sinners from the pulpit, “I command you to stop this folly; stand up and finish dressing yourself, and go down-stairs and fulfil your promise to this man whom you have chosen.”  The black woman pressed forward, then stood back at a glance from her master’s blue eyes.

Dorothy did not stir; then her father spoke again, and his nervous hand tightened on her arm.  “Dorothy,” said he, “I command you to rise”—­and there was a great authority of fatherhood and priesthood in his voice, and even Dorothy was moved before it to respond, though not to yielding.

Suddenly she jerked her arm away from her father’s grasp, and stood up, with a convulsive flutter of her white plumage like a bird.  She flung back her curls and disclosed her beautiful pale face, all strained to terrified resolve, and her dilated blue eyes “I will not!” she cried out, addressing her father alone, “I will not, father.  I have made up my mind that I will not.”

Then, as Parson Fair said not a word, only looked at her with stern questioning, she went on, shrill and fast, “I will not; no, I will not!  Nobody can make me!  I thought I would, I thought I must, until this last.  Now when it comes to this, I can do no more.  I will not, father.”

“Why?” said Parson Fair.

“I would have kept my promise, father.  I would have kept it, no matter if—­I would have been faithful to him if he—­” Suddenly Dorothy turned on Burr with a gasp of terror and defiance.  “I would never have done this, you know,” she cried; “it would never have come to this, if you had spoken and told me you were innocent.”

“What do you mean, child?” said Parson Fair, sternly.

“He would not tell me that he did not stab his cousin Lot,” replied Dorothy, setting her sweet mouth doggedly.  Her blue eyes met her father’s with shrinking and yet steadfast defiance.

“Dorothy,” said he, “do you not know that he is innocent by his cousin’s own confession?”

“Why, then, does he not say so?” finished Dorothy.  “How do I know who did it?  Madelon Hautville said she was guilty, then Lot Gordon; and Burr would not deny his guilt when I asked him.  How do I know which?  Madelon Hautville was trying to shield him; I am not blind.  Then Lot liked her.  How do I know which?” Suddenly she cried out to Burr so loud that the people in the entry below heard her, “Tell me now that you are innocent, and either your cousin Lot or Madelon Hautville guilty,” she demanded.  “Tell me!”