"I mean that I lied again to Sir Henry Clinton, Mr. Renault. Spare me now."
Amazed, comprehending nothing, I fell silent for a space, then turned to scan her face, but read nothing in its immobility.
"Why did you do all this for me, a spy?" I asked.
"For that reason," she answered sharply—"lest the disgrace bespatter my kinsman, Sir Peter, and his sweet lady."
"But—what will be said when you return alone and I am gone?"
"Nothing, for I do not return."
"You—you——"
"I ask you to spare me. Once the lines are passed there is no danger that disgrace shall fall on any one—not even on you and me."
"But how—what will folk say——"
"They'll say we fled together to be wedded!" she cried, exasperated. "If you will force me, learn then that I made excuse and got my pass for that! I told Sir Henry that I loved you and that I was plighted to Walter Butler. And Sir Henry, hating Mr. Butler, laughed until he could not see for the tears, and scratched me off my pass for Gretna Green, with his choicest blessing on the lie I offered in return! There, sir, is what I have done. I said I loved you, and I lied. I shall go with you, then ask a flag of the rebels to pass me on to Canada. And so you see, Mr. Renault, that no disgrace can fall on me or mine through any infamy, however black, that others must account for!"