Margaret looked round with a shudder. “Like enow. Then oh take my hand, and let me lead thee from this foul place.”
He gazed at her with astonishment.
“What, desert my cell; and go into the world again? Is it for that thou hast come to me?” said he sadly and reproachfully.
“Ay, Gerard, I am come to take thee to thy pretty vicarage: art vicar of Gouda, thanks to Heaven and thy good brother Giles; and mother and I have made it so neat for thee, Gerard. 'Tis well enow in winter I promise thee. But bide a bit till the hawthorn bloom, and anon thy walls put on their kirtle of brave roses, and sweet woodbine, Have we forgotten thee, and the foolish things thou lovest? And, dear Gerard, thy mother is waiting; and 'tis late for her to be out of her bed: prithee, prithee, come! And the moment we are out of this foul hole I'll show thee a treasure thou hast gotten, and knowest nought on't, or sure hadst never fled from us so. Alas! what is to do? What have I ignorantly said, to be regarded thus?”
For he had drawn himself all up into a heap, and was looking at her with a strange gaze of fear and suspicion blended.
“Unhappy girl,” said he solemnly, yet deeply agitated, “would you have me risk my soul and yours for a miserable vicarage and the flowers that grow on it? But this is not thy doing: the bowelless fiend sends thee, poor simple girl, to me with this bait. But oh, cunning fiend, I will unmask thee even to this thine instrument, and she shall see thee, and abhor thee as I do, Margaret, my lost love, why am I here? Because I love thee.”
“Oh! no, Gerard, you love me not or you would not have hidden from me; there was no need.”
“Let there be no deceit between us twain, that have loved so true; and after this night, shall meet no more on earth.”
“Now God forbid!” said she.
“I love thee, and thou hast not forgotten me, or thou hadst married ere this, and hadst not been the one to find me, buried here from sight of man. I am a priest, a monk: what but folly or sin can come of you and me living neighbours, and feeding a passion innocent once, but now (so Heaven wills it) impious and unholy? No, though my heart break I must be firm. 'Tis I that am the man, 'tis I that am the priest. You and I must meet no more, till I am schooled by solitude, and thou art wedded to another.”