"It all rests with you as to whether I go or not," replied the Squire, his bold, unpitying eyes bent full upon her. "Milt can either be a free man or a felon—which shall it be?"
His eyes were fixed on hers in a concentrated gaze that seemed to fascinate her like the gaze of the wily serpent charms the ensnared bird. There was a confused buzzing in her head, a thousand small voices crying out, "Save Milt! Save Milt!" Her very power of will appeared to be ebbing away. She saw only those hard, unyielding eyes, she heard only those inner voices crying out in her lover's behalf.
"I'll promise!" she faltered.
"When?" asked the Squire.
"I don't know, some of these days," she cried desperately, quite at her wits' end.
"That's too indefinite," insisted her companion. "S'pose you marry me a week from to-day?"
"Oh! no! no! not that soon! Give me a little more time," she pleaded. Something would surely come to her aid, if she gained time, she knew not what. A wild thought came into her head that perhaps she might yet run away with her lover. At all events, a delay would give him time to get away, whether she went or not.
"Two weeks, then," said the Squire slowly, "no longer."
"Well," she said faintly.
"Then you'll agree to marry me?"