“And do you know that you are asking me to break my parole, my sister? That you are asking me to break my word of honor? That you wish me to betray the trust reposed in me by a chivalrous foe?”
“A chivalrous foe!” she scoffed. “Is it chivalrous to slay the innocent for the guilty? I tell you, Clifford, that truly as you live I have taken the only way to save you. You are justifiable in breaking any word given under such circumstances. Is life of so little worth that you do not care for it? What hath rendered you so indifferent?”
“Life without honor hath no charm for me, my sister,” he returned solemnly. “A parole is more binding upon a soldier than ropes of steel, or chains of iron would be. Men have broken paroles, but when they do they no longer are esteemed by honorably minded men. Such are poltroons, cowards. I will not be of their number. A truce to this talk! If I am to die, I will die as a soldier, blameless and of spotless reputation.”
“Clifford,” she entreated him earnestly, “’tis the only hope. You have already broken your parole in passing the prescribed limits of the rides. I had regard for your scruples by having you brought here. And now, since you are here through no fault of your own, you can take advantage of the fact to escape.”
“Sophistry,” he uttered shortly. “That is no salve to the conscience, Harriet.”
“But the death, my brother?” She was very white for Clifford was moving toward the door. “’Tis no way for a gentleman to die.”
“The mode is not at all to my liking, my sister,” he answered gravely. “Hanging is not, in very truth, a death for a gentleman; still a man may be a gentleman though he be hanged.”
He put his hand on the door-knob and turned again toward Peggy. But Harriet uttered a cry of anguish.
“I’ll never see you again, Clifford,” she cried. “And father will be broken-hearted. He helped me in this.”