“Ah, Lora! your lover is sure—safe—certain to become yours for life. Mine is doubtful, and in danger.”
“Doubtful? What mean you by that, Marion?”
“Suppose my father refuse to acknowledge him—then—”
“Then I know what his daughter would do.”
“What would she do?”
“Run away with him;—I don’t mean with the venerable parent—the knight—but with the lover, the black horseman. By the way, what a romantic thing it would be to be abducted on that splendid steed! Troth, Marion! I quite envy you the chance.”
“For shame, you silly child! Don’t talk in such foolish fashion!”
Marion coloured slightly as she uttered the admonition. The thought of an elopement was not new to her. She had entertained it already; and it was just for this reason she did not desire her cousin to dwell upon it, even in jest. With her it had been considered in serious earnest; and might be again—if Sir Marmaduke should prove intractable.
“But you spoke of danger?” said Lora, changing the subject. “What danger?”
“Hush!” exclaimed Marion, suddenly starting back from the mirror, with her long yellow hair sweeping like sunbeams over her snow-white shoulders; “Did you hear something?”