"God is love," says the Book.
"The universe is God," says the philosopher. "Therefore," as the mathematician would say, "love is the universe." To that proposition Dorothy was a corollary.
The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.
"Let us go to the dining hall," I suggested. Sir George led the way by the stone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquet hail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.
The moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time in which to collect her scattered senses.
When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, Sir George turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to know the name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and said nothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.
"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tell me the name of the man who wrote this letter," he cried, holding toward her the fragment of paper. "Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, I swear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper court till you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child."
Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only for herself she had to fear.
Her heart kept saying, "This for his sake, this for his sake." Out of her love came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.
Her father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodice from her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:—