"He would have done it," answered Amabel. "I tried to appeal to his manhood—to his sense of justice. I might as well have appealed to the wolf-lady's picture. He gave me only empty compliments, and coaxed me as one might a wayward child at first. He even tried to kiss my cheek, and when I repulsed him with more force than you would think I could use, he grew white with rage, and swore that he would bend me to his will, and humble me in the dust. He would make me sue for his pardon and be thankful for a word."
"The villain!" said the old lady. "But how did you escape?"
"It was Lucy who set me free. She came alone in the dark through that dreadful room, and took me out of their power. Oh Lucy, I shall never hear music so sweet as the sound of that little whistle."
"Nay, we owe all to poor Wilson, who sent me word of your extremity by Mary," said I, "and to faithful Alick, who guided us through the hills to this place of safety. As to myself, what less could I have done for my foster-sister?"
"Aweel, we will thank the good Lord above all, my children," said the old lady, solemnly. "You have gone through fire and water, and He hath brought you out into a safe place if not a wealthy one. But you have had a hard journey."
"We have," said Amabel, leaning back in her chair; "but I would go through ten times more to be safe as I feel now. But oh my poor father!"
And she burst into a flood of hysterical tears.
"Let us hope his eyes may be opened," said the old lady. "But you were best go to your bed, and here comes Alice to say that it is ready."
We were led up a somewhat steep staircase in one of the turrets—what in Scotland is called a turnpike stair—to two small but pleasant and convenient rooms opening together, with a neat white bed in each.
Mrs. Alice brought up our bundles, and I undressed Amabel, got her to bed, and sat by her till she fell asleep.