“They may be foes to you only,” said Ada. She then suddenly clasped her hands and uttered a cry of joy. “I see it now,” she said, “Albert—Albert is coming.”
“No!” thundered Gray. “You are wrong—on my soul, you are wrong. It is not he. If you hear his voice, act as you please—I will not restrain you.”
“Who are these men then?”
“That I cannot, will not tell you. Suffice it, they seek your life. We must die or live together in this emergency; or else if you, with fatal obstinacy, will not be guided by me, and embrace the only chance of escape, in self-defence I must silence you.”
“By murdering me?”
“Yes, although reluctantly. Ada, you have sense, knowledge, discretion, beyond your years.”
Ada sat down, and deep emotion was evident in her countenance.
“Jacob Gray,” she said, “death is frightful to the young. Let me believe the reasons you urge, or believe them not, it matters little. You will kill me if I do not do your bidding in this case. Those who are coming may be my friends or they may be my enemies, I cannot tell, and your statements carry not with them the stamp of truth to my mind. The heart once thoroughly deceived, trusts no more. You need not seek to delude with untruths—it is enough that you will kill me if I do not hide from those whom you dread—but you have said that, should I hear the voice of him—him who—why should I shrink from the avowal?—Him whom I love, you will not stay me.”
“I swear I will not,” cried Gray.
“Your word is quite as weighty as your oath, Jacob Gray,” said Ada. “Both are worthless. But you would not make such a promise even if you thought that he would be one of those you expect.”