"I cannot," she murmured, feebly.
"You must," said I. "This is not a question of death—it's a question of dishonor. Home is the only haven where you can find escape from that, and to that home I will take you."
"Oh, my God!" she wailed; "how can I meet my father?"
She buried her face in her hands again, and sobbed convulsively.
"Do not be afraid," said I. "I will meet him, and explain all. Or say— answer me this," I added, in fervid, vehement tones—"I can do more than this. I will tell him it was all my doing. I will accept his anger. I'll tell him I was half mad, and repented. I'll tell any thing —any thing you like. I'll shield you so that all his fury shall fall on me, and he will have nothing for you but pity."
"Stop," said she, solemnly, rising to her feet, and looking at me with her white face—"stop! You must not talk so. I owe my life to you already. Do not overwhelm me. You have now deliberately offered to accept dishonor for my sake. It is too much. If my gratitude is worth having, I assure you I am grateful beyond words. But your offer is impossible. Never would I permit it."
"Will you go home, then?" I asked, as she paused.
"Yes," said she, slowly.
I offered my arm, and she took it, leaning heavily upon me. Our progress was slow, for the storm was fierce, and she was very weak.
"I think," said she, "that in my haste I left the back door unlocked.
If so, I may get in without being observed."