"Thou art the noblest gentleman I have ever known," she sobbed. "I am unworthy of such love as this."
"No," I answered, "thou art worthy of a finer, truer man, and such a love thou hast. When thou art happy in thy far-away home, wilt thou not think of one who loves thee and wanders in exile in Virginia? The grass is green in old England now, Margaret, and the birds are singing on every hedge; greet the old place for me, and remember me to my old friends, Bobby and Steele, for I shall never see them more."
"I will think of thee often," she answered, the tears still in her azure eyes. "Must thou remain here, alone in this strange land?"
"Yes," I answered, "my place is here. I could not bear to see thee the bride of another."
"Am I to be wedded without my consent, sir?" she said archly, and she broke into a low, sweet laugh.
"But thou dost love Bobby? Thou didst as good as tell me that in the prison yonder in England."
"Thou didst take it for granted," she said shyly. "I was overpowered with sorrow at thy sad plight, and thou didst jump at the conclusion that I loved Sir Robert," and she looked at me, a smile shining through her tears.
"Whom dost thou love, if not Bobby?" I cried in wonder. "Dost love anyone, Margaret?" and I bent low over the golden head.
"Yes," she answered softly, "I love a gentleman, brave, strong, noble, with a heart as true as steel; one who has loved me long."
"Who is it, Margaret?"