"He will forget thee," said Clermistonlee, angrily.
"Never!" replied Lilian, energetically clasping her hands. "In the busy city and on the lonely hills, in the hour of battle and storm by sea and land, he will ever think of me—ever, ever!"
"But he may be slain?" said the lord maliciously.
"Cruel—cruel!"
"What then—hah?"
"No second choice would ever make me violate the solemn vow I pledged to him—that plight which I called on heaven to witness and angels to register."
Clermistonlee made no reply, but her fervour and her words stung him to the soul; her eyes sparkled and her usually pale cheek glowed; but he knew that it was for the love and by the recollection of another; his first thoughts were those of wrath; his second spleen and sorrow. He arose and stepped aside a little.
"Unfortunate that I am!" said he, with something of sadness and real love in his tone and manner. "By what witchcraft am I so hateful to her; but I must quit her presence for a time at least, or lose all hope of her favour for ever."
He walked to and fro, while Lilian, resigned again to tears, covered her face with her handkerchief.
"Beatrix," said Clermistonlee, in a fierce whisper to the shrinking woman, as she laid supper on the long dark oaken board, over which six tall waxen candles flared from a great iron candelabrum. "Beatrix Gilruth—hear me, old shrivel-skin! Hast never a love philtre about thee? Ere now I have known thee to my own cost use such things."