He might as well have prayed to a statue, so changeless was the scorn of her silent lips.
He asked her, almost frantically:
"Do you understand that unless you marry me there is no appeal from the sentence of death?"
"Yes, I understand; but I consider death preferable to a union with you."
Angered by the scorn of her words, he retorted:
"It will be a cruel death, I warn you, at the hands of old Jane Crabtree and your body will not even have Christian burial. It will be flung into an old disused well on the premises, and the secret of your fate will never be known."
"Be it so. At least, you cannot murder my soul. It will return to the God who gave it," she replied, dauntlessly bravely, determined that he should not have the satisfaction of seeing her wince before his threats.
He rose, with a baffled air, exclaiming:
"I shall not consider this answer final. I shall give you one more week in which to decide your fate."