“No, no,” he cried, “for Heaven’s sake! You will drive me mad.”
“No,” she whispered; “it cannot be unwomanly at a time like this.”
“Too late—too late!” and he drew back, covered his face with his hands, and let his head fall upon the cold marble at his side.
“No,” she whispered, as she clasped her hands, and laid them on his shoulder, “it is not too late. Mine was but a girlish love for one unworthy of a thought, and in my youthful weakness I thought that all the world was base. I did not know. Take me, Neil, husband, as your faithful wife. It is not too late. We will go there hand in hand, side by side, to fight this pestilence.”
“What? Take you there—you?” he cried, as he raised his head, and caught her hands—“take you to face that awful scourge?”
“Yes,” she cried, raising her head proudly, “side by side with you in the awful strife. God with us, Neil—our faith in his protecting shield, as I place mine in you, my brave, true hero—my love—my life.”
“Till death do us part,” cried Neil, as he clasped her to his breast.
“Amen!” said a solemn voice, and Sir Denton came forward out of the darkness, and stopped by their side. “I thought I was going to the grave a childless man,” he continued in a broken voice—“my son—my daughter. You have given me afresh lease of life—to live till I see you once again. I say it, children, I, the old prophet: I shall see you before I die.”