“Marion Wade?”
“More than mine—my father—my brother—our kindred—perhaps our country—will all be grateful; will bless you for the act.”
“And of all these gratitudes, the only one I should in the least esteem is your own, beautiful Marion. That will be sufficient recompense for me.”
“Sir, you shall have it—to the very depth of my soul.”
“Say rather to the depth of your heart.”
“I have said it. You shall have my heart’s gratitude, now and for ever.”
“Ah! gratitude is but a cold word. Exchange it for another.”
“Another! What mean you, Sir?”
“Say your love. Give me but that, and I promise—I swear, by my hopes of happiness here and hereafter—that I shall not rest, till your father’s pardon be obtained; or till I, by my unwelcome interference in his behalf, be sentenced to partake of his prison and punishment! O Marion Wade! have mercy upon me! I, not you, am the suppliant in this cause. Give me what I have asked; and command me as your slave!”
For some seconds Marion stood without making reply.