The poor girl tried to speak, but could not. Her fire was burning out, her forced strength fast failing her.
"Florimel," said Malcolm, and knelt on one knee and took her hand: it gave a flutter as if it would fly like a bird, but the net of his love held it, and it lay passive and cold—"Florimel, I will be your true brother. I am your brother, your very own brother, to live for you, love you, fight for you, watch and ward you, till a true man takes you for his wife." Her hand quivered like a leaf. "Sister, when you and I appear before our father, I shall hold up my face before him: will you?"
"Send him away," she breathed rather than said, and sank on the floor.
He lifted her, laid her on a couch, and returned to the drawing-room. "My Lady Clementina," he said, "will you oblige me by going to my sister in the room at the top of the stair?"
"I will, my lord," she answered, and went.
Malcolm walked up to Liftore. "My lord," he said, "my sister takes her leave of you."
"I must have my dismissal from her own lips."
"You shall have it from the hands of my fishermen.—Take him away."
"You shall hear from me, my lord marquis, if such you be," said Liftore.
"Let it be of your repentance, then, my lord," said Malcolm. "That I shall be glad to hear of."