“Thou art a witch, Betty,” he said; “have thy will, but make the man talk sense to thee.”
She had pushed him to the door, and would have thrust him out if the warder had not fastened it from without. Having disposed of one, she ran back to the other disputant, who stood leaning on his chair with a gloomy face.
“Have you also so poor an opinion of me?” he asked, looking searchingly at the fair face.
“Would I be here?” she answered simply. “Ah, my lord, a woman comes not lightly to such a place!”
“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, kissing her hands passionately; “Sir William’s suspicions of me struck a sore heart. My darling, while I have your confidence, no man shall dare to doubt me.”
“Think, think!” she cried, pressing her hand on his arm earnestly; “how did it happen? What can we do to explain it away?”
Lord Raby shook his head; he knew too well the secret nature of such charges, the slow course of the law, the difficulty of defence.
“I know not,” he answered, looking fondly into her troubled eyes; “we must even let the law find its own way. The attack on me is of a nature which I can least easily defeat. I trust most in mine innocence. Let it not so distress you, happy as it makes me to feel you care. Ah, Betty, I had no thought of such a fate when I asked you to be my wife; will you keep faith? Forgive me; I ought not to ask you to remain plighted to a prisoner.”
He was looking sadly at the beautiful, animated face. She raised her head proudly; her eyes shone.
“Sir,” she said sweetly, “I will wed you or none!”