"I loved you the first day I saw you, and heard your voice. And now I love you ten times more. Let me dry thy tears for ever, sweet Mercy. Be my wife."
"You are mad," said Mercy. "What, would you wed a woman in my condition? I am more your friend than to take you at your word. And what do you think I am made of, to go from one man to another, like that?"
"Take your time, sweetheart; only give me your hand."
"George," said Mercy, very gravely, "I am beholden to you; but my duty it lies another way. There is a young man in these parts (Sir George groaned) that was my follower for two years and better. I wronged him for one I never name now. I must marry that poor lad, and make him happy, or else live and die as I am."
Sir George turned pale. "One word: do you love him?"
"I have a regard for him."
"Do you love him?"
"Hardly. But I wronged him, and I owe him amends. I shall pay my debt."
Sir George bowed, and retired sick at heart, and deeply mortified. Mercy looked after him and sighed.
Next day, as he walked disconsolate up and down, she came to him and gave him her hand. "You were a good friend to me that bitter day," said she. "Now let me be yours. Do not bide here: 'twill but vex you."