Thus did this wicked cynic so reveal his intent that Lady Biddy could no longer doubt what was behind. Yet did she strive to control her indignation, with the faint hope that she misjudged his meaning.
"I do not ask you to go to England," says she. "All I beg is that you set me ashore, and let me make my way home as God shall please to guide me."
"That is impossible, and I should be unworthy of your respect if I consented to such a course. Beauty such as yours is too rare at Santiago to be set light store by. Believe me, you would never be suffered to leave that city if once you set foot in it. You would become the slave and property of the first who could lay his hand on you. I myself should not dare to take you on shore till a priest had given me a legal right to possess you."
"What!" cries she, losing control of her temper; "do you think I will ever consent to become your wife?"
"Yes," he replies, "I think you will when you consider the matter calmly."
And with that he rose, as if to give her opportunity for reflection. But now, her spirit terribly moved with righteous anger, she stopped him.
"Villain," says she, "do you refuse to give me my liberty?"
"If you mean do I refuse to abandon you to such a fate as would be yours in being set alone on shore at Caracas, I reply yes," says he, with less hypocrisy and plainer than he had yet spoken. "If you refuse to be the wife of a Spanish gentleman you shall certainly not become the slave of a mongrel peasant."
"You intend to keep me an unwilling prisoner on board this ship?"
"I do," says he, "in the hope—nay, in the firm belief—that you will willingly agree to be my wife by the time we reach England."