"How many lords of Crandlemar are there?" she asked, almost
contemptuously.

"One, only," and he still held out his hand with a gesture of
entreaty. "I was the ill-humoured, boisterous man in Scotch attire
last night. I beg thee to forgive and forget it. Come--come--thou art
my ward."

"But my Lord Cedric is an old man, as old as my father, and is
Scotch."

"Thou art speaking of my father; he has been dead five years. Thy
father did not know of his death when he sent thee to England. And
my mother"--his voice trembled--"died when I was born. I was reared
without a woman's love. Angel was too old to teach me tenderness. She
has tried to guide me; but Kate--thy father calls thee so--I have had
no one to love me like thee. I have lived a wild, boisterous life in
Scotland most of the time, and after father died I went to France.
I have lived wickedly, Kate; I have given myself over to oaths,
and--and--and--drink;--'twas so last night when I saw for the first
time the woman I loved; who was as fair in face, form and soul, as all
I had ever pictured or dreamed. Wilt thou forget my course tongue and
try--try--to--to--to love me, Kate. Thou wilt say 'tis soon to speak
so to thee; but why keep back that 'tis best for me to say and thou to
know?" She could not mistake the ring of truth in his voice that was
now so pleading.

"Come, come,"--and as if a happy thought occurred, reached into his
pocket and drew forth a letter;--"here is thy proof that I am Lord