Jan. And will you?
Helen. They are treacherous I know. This will do.—(Taking a basket from the toilette.) Give me that cord. (She lets down the basket from the window, and draws it up, with a letter in it.)
Helen. (Looking at the superscription.) 'Tis his! I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now? (Breaking it open.) Ah, there's no forgery in this, 'Tis his! 'tis his!
Jan. How can she stand to look at that little lock of hair now?—smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds. But there's bad news there. How the color fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can it be?
Helen. (Throwing the letter down, and walking the floor hastily.) This is too much! I cannot, I cannot, I cannot go with them! How could he ask it of me? This is cruel.
He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared them—I cannot go with them.
(She takes up the letter.)
(Reading.) "Possible"—"If it were possible"—he does not read that word as I did when I kept this promise—Possible? He does not know the meaning that love gives that word—"If I had known an hour sooner," —Ay, ay, an hour sooner!—"Trust me, dear Helen, they will not harm you." Trust me, trust me. Won't I?
Jan. She is beckoning them, as I live!
Helen. Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must go with these savages.