"He has released you?" Words are too poor to express Roger's profound astonishment.
"Yes; on one condition."
"A condition! What a Jew! Yes; well, go on—?"
"I can't go on," says Dulce, growing crimson. "I can't, indeed," putting up her hands as she sees him about to protest; "it is of no use asking me. I neither can or will tell you about that condition, ever."
"Give me even a hint," says Roger, coaxingly.
"No, no, no! The rack wouldn't make me tell it," returns she, with a stern shake of her red-brown head, but with very pathetic eyes.
"But what can it be," exclaims Roger, fairly puzzled.
"That I shall go to my grave without divulging," replies she, heroically.
"Well, no matter," says Roger, after a minute's reflection, resolved to take things philosophically. "You are free, that is the great point. And now—now, Dulce, you will marry me?"
At this Miss Blount grows visibly affected (as they say of ladies in the dock), and dropping into the nearest chair, lets her hands fall loosely clasped upon her knees, and so remains, the very picture of woe.