"Margaret, look at me!" said the man.
His deep, vibrating voice compelled the girl to raise her eyes. She looked up piteously, and seemed half afraid to withdraw her gaze from Wyvis' dark earnestness of aspect.
"Margaret—my darling—you said you loved me."
"Yes—I do love you," she murmured; but she looked afraid.
"I am not altered, Margaret: I am the same Wyvis that you loved—the Wyvis that you kissed down by the brook, when you promised to be my wife. Have you forgotten? Ah no—not so soon. You would not have come here to-day if you had forgotten."
"I have not forgotten," she said, in a whisper.
"Then, darling, what difference does it make? There is no stain upon my birth. I would not ask you to share a dishonored name. But my parents were honest if they were poor, and what they were does not affect me. Margaret, speak, tell me, dear, that you will not give me up!"
Margaret tried to withdraw her hand. "I do not know what to say," she whispered.
"Say that you love me."
"I—have said it."