Could it be, she asked herself incredulously, could it be that her
father had ever sanctioned and approved so ghastly a risk for her? She
put her hand to her temples. Her brain was reeling. How could she do
this thing? How could she have permitted it to be even suggested to
her? And then, swift through her tortured mind flashed his words:
"There will be an end. I have had to face it to-night." Was it this
that he had meant? Was it for this that he had been preparing her?

With a muffled exclamation she rose, trembling in every limb. "I
can't!" she cried piteously, "oh, I can't! Please go away!"

It might have been the frightened prayer of a child, so beseeching
was it, so full of weakness. But Nick Ratcliffe heard it unmoved. He
waited a few seconds till she came to a stand by the table, her back
towards him. Then with a sudden quiet movement he rose and followed
her.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "But you can't afford to shirk things
at this stage. I am offering you deliverance, though you don't realise
it."

He spoke with force, and if his aim had been to rouse her to a more
practical activity, he gained his end. She turned upon him in swift
and desperate indignation. Her voice rang almost harsh.

"How can you call it deliverance? It is at best a choice of two
horrible evils. You know perfectly well that we could never get
through. You must be mad to suggest such a thing. We should be made
prisoners and massacred under the very guns of the fort."