"Oh! indeed, it is entirely her own idea!" cried Margaret eagerly; "not a soul has any suspicion of it but herself and me, and if you refuse, you will not even know her name, and the secret will be buried in your grave."
"Then give me a reason," he said, apparently relieved by her unmistakable honesty. "Give me the real reason, for I see this is something more than a mere fine lady's caprice."
Margaret felt a little natural embarrassment—the man was so different from what she had expected, that the little plans she had devised on her way to the prison, did not fit into the circumstances.
"In truth Prue—I mean the Lady Prudence—is deeply in debt and much harassed by her creditors, who threaten her with the Fleet, and I know not what beside," she blurted out. "Now, if she were your wife, her debts would be your debts, and as you, alack, must die on Monday, no one can make your widow pay your debts!"
"So 'tis my widow the Lady Prudence desires to be; not my wife!" said Robin, with a bitter smile.
"So 'tis my widow she desires to be!"
"What difference does that make?" cried Margaret, greatly relieved at having got over the worst of her mission. "An' if you think so much of a kiss, I'll warrant my lady will not refuse one to her husband."
"Aye, such a kiss as I snatched from her on Bleakmoor, with lips denied and cheek averted. Or such a kiss as she might leave on the face of a dead stranger; as cold as the corpse itself."
"'Twill be your own fault if you get nothing better than that," cried Peggie, with a glance that had something of challenge in it. "On Bleakmoor, Lady Prudence had not seen your face; how could she tell you were not some blackavised desperado? There is not a handsome young gallant behind every robber's mask."