The preacher interposed, “My daughter be persuaded. The consent of your parents should be enough to incline you to Captain Dunbar. They are surely the best judges of what is good for their children.”
“I cannot and I will not marry with Captain Dunbar.”
“Beware, Frederica,” said Dunbar, in a voice studiously subdued, but with great difficulty—the passion speaking out in his fiery looks, and his frame that trembled with its emotions.
“‘Beware, Frederica!’ Of what should I beware? Your power? Your power may kill me. It can scarcely go farther. Know, then, that I am prepared to die sooner than marry you!”
Though dreadfully enraged, the manner of Dunbar was still carefully subdued. His words were enunciated in tones of a laborious calm, as he replied,
“You are mistaken in your notions of the extent of my power. It can reach where you little imagine. But I do not desire to use it. I prefer that you should give me your hand without restraint or coercion.”
“That I have told you is impossible.”
“Nay, it is not impossible.”
“Solemnly, on my knees, I assure you that never can I, or will I, while I preserve my consciousness, consent to be your wife.”
The action was suited to the words. She sunk on her knees as she spoke, and her hands were clasped and her eyes uplifted, as if taking a solemn oath to heaven. Dunbar rushed furiously toward her.