"Dorothy," he said, "it matters not what you have done; you are my only love. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though I hope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not love me."
"No, no, John, you know that," sobbed the girl.
"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would not intentionally bring evil upon me while you love me."
"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My love was the cause—my love was my curse—it was your curse."
"Do not weep, Dorothy," said John, interrupting her. "I would that I could take all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep."
Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. She was not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by my side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzed cheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the harrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I could no longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a spectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard.
Sir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John's arms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to force her away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward Sir George, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spoke calmly:—
"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where you stand. No power on earth can save you."
There was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause. Then Sir George turned to me.
"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himself Thomas. Do you know him?"