“I know not,” said Mr Underhill; “is he Norfolk-born?”
“He was born at Exmouth,” she answered; “is Exmouth in Norfolk?”
“Nay, surely,” said Isoult; “’tis in Devon, as I well know.”
“Then what for Norwich?” she said again. “But, Mr Underhill! you take Thekla—and you take not me?”
“I cannot, Mrs Rose,” said he; “your peril—”
“What care I for my peril?” she cried, passionately.
“Doth he belong to them? or doth he belong only to Thekla? Let me go, Mr Underhill! He is mine—mine—mine! Mi alma, mi bien (my soul, my own)! I will go, if it be the last sight of him! Who shall let me?”
“Marry, I would, if I could,” said Mr Underhill, under his voice. “Mrs Avery, what am I to do?” and he looked helplessly at Isoult.
“Leave me to speak to her, Mr Underhill,” she answered. “Dear sister Marguerite, remember Mr Rose is not yet condemned: and there is the shadow of hope that he may not be so. But if they can prove him to have been in your company, that hope will perish. Will you go, knowing that?”
Mrs Rose had knelt down by the table, and buried her head in her hands upon it. She gave no answer save a low, deep moan of unutterable anguish.