“Bless me, how little you know! What is quarreling King or rebellious country to me compared with you? No wonder my beating heart did not awaken me with your hand upon it, for it was co-conspirator with you, and wholly your own. Heaven mend my broken patriotism!—but if you had asked me, I would have ridden myself to Cromwell with the King’s signature.”
“Do you——can you forgive me, then?”
“Forgive you? You are the bravest lass in all the land,”—and with that, before she was aware or could ward off his attack if she had wished to do so, he reached impulsively forward, caught her off her horse, and held her in his arms as if she were a child, kissing her wounded wrist, her eyes, her hair, her lips. “And now, do you forgive me, Frances?”
“Oh, willingly, willingly! Trespass for trespass. ‘As we forgive them that trespass against us.’ But set me on my horse again, I beg of you.”
“I can hardly believe you are here yet.”
“Cease, cease, I beg of you! The moments are too precious for it.”
“Precious they are and most preciously employed.”
“Will, Will, I implore you. Do you not understand? You are jesting on the brink of the grave. De Courcy has crawled to Cromwell ere this, and that grim man is lighting the North against us. They are now on our track.”
“The way is clear. There is no one in sight, and we can outride them when they come.”
“They are riding across country to intercept us. Oh, let not my arms hold you back for destruction. Cromwell himself told me he would hang you if he had to take you openly.”