“You will not?  I swear you shall; else I shall hope, believe, know beyond all doubt, that during these years, I have not been the only sufferer; and that loyal as was your soul, your rebel heart is as truly mine, as all my deathless love is surely yours.”

She tried to withdraw her hands; but his hold tightened, and infinite exultation rang in his voice.

“My darling!  My darling—­you dare not deny it?  I shall wear my white rose to make all the future sweet with a blessed love; but have you no word of assurance for my hungry ears?  Is my darling too proud?”

He raised her hands, laid her arms around his neck, and folded very close to his heart, the long coveted prize.

“My Beryl, it was a stubborn battle, but Lennox Dunbar claims his own; and will hold her safe forever.  Will you be loyal to your tyrant?”

Was it a white or a crimson rose that hid its lovely petals against his shoulder, and whispered with lips that his kiss had rouged: 

“Have I ever been allowed a choice?  Was I not foredoomed to be always at the mercy of Tiberius?”

The little garden was growing dusky, the gilded mist waving its spectral banners over the thundering cataract, had whitened as the sun went down behind the wooded crest that barred the western sky line; and the shimmering gold on the heaving, whirling current of the Rapids faded to leaden tints, flecked with foam, as like a maddened suitor, parted by Goat Island from its beloved, it rushed to plunge into the abyss, where the silvery bridal veil shook her signal, and all the roaring gorge filled with purple gloom.

Mr. Dunbar drew his companion’s hand under his arm, and led her toward the Clifton House.

“You and I have done with shadows.  On the heights yonder, the sun still shines.  Up there waits one, who will tell you that which he refuses to divulge to any one else.  Ten days ago my agents notified me that a man was searching for Mrs. Brentano and her daughter Beryl in New York; and that he had gone to X—–­, where he spent several days in consultation with the Catholic priest.  Singleton sent me a telegram, and I reached X—–­in time to accompany the stranger back to New York.  To me he admits only, that he lives in Montreal; and is the bearer of a message, the import of which, sacred promises prevent him from revealing to any one but Miss Brentano.  He is an elderly man, and so wary, no amount of dexterity can circumvent his caution.  Very complex and inexplicable motives brought me here; chiefly the longing to see you, to learn your retreat, your mode of existence; and also the intention to exact one condition, before I made it possible for you to find the object of your search.  When you had given me your promise not to marry him, it was my purpose to allow you one final meeting; and if you forfeited your compact, the dungeon and the gallows awaited him.  Love makes women martyrs; they are the apostles of the gospel of altruism.  Love revives in men of my stamp, the primeval and undifferentiated tiger.  When I think of all that you have endured, of how nearly I lost you, my snowdrop, do you wonder I shall hasten to set you in the garden of my heart, and shelter your dear head from every chill wind of adversity?”