“But he is a smuggler.”
“It is not true!” cried Celia passionately; “and if you dare to say such things of my dear, good, suffering father, I’ll go away and never help you.”
“I can’t help saying it,” said Archy sturdily. “I’d give anything to get out of this dreadful dark place; but I must speak.”
“Not of him.”
“I don’t want to speak of him,” said Archy, “but what can I do? I must tell about all those smuggled things there in the cellar that night when you found me in that room—out of uniform.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Celia.
“I know it’s hard on you, but I’ve been here a prisoner ever since, and it’s enough to break one’s heart.”
The poor fellow’s voice changed a little as he spoke, and he would have given way if he had seen Celia’s head bowed down, and that she was crying bitterly.
“You will send for help?”
“I cannot,” sobbed the girl, “unless you will promise not to tell.”