"I owe that jailer and that jailer's daughter—"
"You owe them your safety and your freedom. Oh, Robert, I know, I know what you mean. But what care I what the world may think by-and-bye, or to-morrow, or to-day? My conscience is clear."
"Your father—" I persisted.
She nodded. "Yes, yes, you speak truth, alas! And yet you must be freed. And"—here she got to her feet, and with flashing eyes spoke out—"and you shall be set free. Let come what will, I owe my first duty to you, though all the world chatter; and I will not stir from that. As soon as I can make it possible, you shall escape."
"You shall have the right to set me free," said I, "if I must go to your father's house. And if I do not go there, but out to my own good country, you shall still have the right before all the world to follow, or to wait till I come to fetch you."
"I do not understand you, Robert," said she. "I do not—" Here she broke off, looking, looking at me, and trembling a little.
Then I stooped and whispered softly in her ear. She gave a little cry, and drew back from me; yet instantly her hand came out and caught my arm.
"Robert, Robert! I can not, I dare not!" she cried softly. "No, no, it may not be," she added in a whisper of fear.
I went to the alcove, drew back the curtain, and asked Mr.
Wainfleet to step forth.
"Sir," said I, picking up my Prayer Book and putting it in his hands, "I beg you to marry this lady and myself."