"Certainly 'twas he; oh, there is no mistaking that hateful visage of his."
"Then you are indeed lost!" said she, clasping her hands; but the abbot who had hitherto remained silent and gloomy, patted her head kindly, and said—"My own good daughter, hearken to me; trust in Heaven and hope—hope, the friend of happiness."
"But hope, Father Abbot, will desert us, unless——" said Gray, hesitating, as he turned imploringly to Murielle.
"Unless what?" said the abbot.
"Murielle becomes my bride—my wife!"
"Sir Patrick Gray——"
"Her ring is here; a betrothal ring it is, and a wedding-ring it shall be," continued Gray with increasing vehemence, as his voice with his emotion became deeper. "Good father abbot, my kinsman and my friend, you who knew and loved my father and mother well, you who were the guide and mentor of both, even as you are of me, will not hear me now in vain! The dangerous schemes of this ambitious earl——"
"Enough, enough," interrupted the abbot gloomily, as he waved his hand; "to my sorrow and fear I know them all, and own they terrify me."
"Then, to save our young king from many deadly perils, and our country from civil war—to save this miserable Duke Robert from the block on which his father perished—to save the house of Douglas from destruction, and, more than all, to save herself from misery, Murielle must wed me!"
Murielle opened her tremulous lips to speak, but Gray added impetuously,—"To-day—to-night—now, instantly!"