“Dearest!  I would die for you!”

“Would you see me indifferent to everything in the world?  Would you have me lost?  Do you think I will live another day in England without you?  I have staked all I have on you, Lucy.  You have nearly killed me once.  A second time, and the earth will not be troubled by me.  You ask me to wait, when they are plotting against us on all sides?  Darling Lucy! look on me.  Fix—­your fond eyes on me.  You ask me to wait when here you are given to me when you have proved my faith—­when we know we love as none have loved.  Give me your eyes!  Let them tell me I have your heart!”

Where was her wise little speech?  How could she match such mighty eloquence?  She sought to collect a few more of the scattered fragments.

“Dearest! your father may be brought to consent by and by, and then—­oh! if you take me home now”—­

The lover stood up.  “He who has been arranging that fine scheme to disgrace and martyrize you?  True, as I live! that’s the reason of their having you back.  Your old servant heard him and your uncle discussing it.  He!—­Lucy! he’s a good man, but he must not step in between you and me.  I say God has given you to me.”

He was down by her side again, his arms enfolding her.

She had hoped to fight a better battle than in the morning, and she was weaker and softer.

Ah! why should she doubt that his great love was the first law to her?  Why should she not believe that she would wreck him by resisting?  And if she suffered, oh sweet to think it was for his sake!  Sweet to shut out wisdom; accept total blindness, and be led by him!

The hag Wisdom annoyed them little further.  She rustled her garments ominously, and vanished.

“Oh, my own Richard!” the fair girl just breathed.

He whispered, “Call me that name.”

She blushed deeply.

“Call me that name,” he repeated.  “You said it once today.”

“Dearest!”

Not that.”

“O darling!”

“Not that.”

“Husband!”

She was won.  The rosy gate from which the word had issued was closed with a seal.

Ripton did not enjoy his introduction to the caged bird of beauty that night.  He received a lesson in the art of pumping from the worthy landlady below, up to an hour when she yawned, and he blinked, and their common candle wore with dignity the brigand’s hat of midnight, and cocked a drunken eye at them from under it.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Beauty, of course, is for the hero.  Nevertheless, it is not always he on whom beauty works its most conquering influence.  It is the dull commonplace man into whose slow brain she drops like a celestial light, and burns lastingly.  The poet, for instance, is a connoisseur of beauty:  to the artist she is a model.  These gentlemen by much contemplation of her charms wax critical.  The days when they