“Oh, Gil—dear Gil, I cannot!” she faltered.
“Quick,” he whispered. “Hold me tightly, sweet, for my arms are failing. Look here, Janet shall come if thou wilt.”
“Nay, nay, she is false.”
“Then come without her, sweet. Come, and be my own wife, and let us laugh at this intruder, who would rob us both of a happy life.”
“No, no, no!” she faltered, as she clung to him. “I cannot come—I cannot come.”
“You do not trust me,” he said.
“Oh! hush, hush, Gil!” she moaned. “I do trust you, and love you with all my heart. I will die sooner than that man shall clasp me as his wife, but I cannot, cannot flee my home like this.”
“Yes, yes, dearest, quick, you must decide,” he whispered, as a faint chirp was heard.
“I cannot, Gil. My father—my poor father, I cannot leave him.”
“Mace, dearest, you torture me and yourself. You will come.”