"The Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul!" she softly prayed.
"I love you!" whispered Dalrymple, folding her to him with both his arms, and pressing his lips to her head. "That is all the world holds. That is all the Heaven there is, and we have it for our own."
But presently she drew back from him, clinging to him with her hands as though to hold him, and yet separating from him and looking up into his face.
"And to-morrow?" she said, with a despairing question in her tone.
"We will go away to-night," he answered, "and to-morrow will be ours, too, and all the to-morrows after that."
But she shook her head, and her hands loosened their hold upon his arms, still lingering on his sleeves.
"And leave her to die?" she asked, with a quick glance at the abbess's door.
Then she looked at him, with something of sudden fear as she met his eyes again. And almost instantly she turned from him, and threw herself forward upon the table as she sat.
"The sin, the deadly sin!" she moaned. "Oh, the horror of it all—the sin, the shame, the disgrace! That is the worst to bear—the shame! The undying shame of it!"
Dalrymple's brows bent themselves in a heavy frown, for he was in no temper to be thwarted, desperate as the risk might be. For himself, he knew that he was setting his life on the chances, if she consented, and that life would not be worth having if she refused. He knew well enough that they must almost certainly be pursued, and that there would be little hesitation about shooting him or cutting his throat if they were caught and if he resisted, as he knew that he should. He had been in love with her for days. The last twenty-four hours had made him desperate. And a desperate man is not to be played with, more especially if he chance to have any Highland blood in his veins.