"From here, from the citadel, from anywhere but your house; and
so I will not go to it."

"You will not go to it?" she repeated slowly and strangely. "How
may you not? You are a prisoner. If they make my father your
jailer--" She laughed.

"I owe that jailer and that jailer's daughter--"

"You owe them your safety and your freedom. Oh, Robert, I know,
I know what you mean. But what care I what the world may think
by-and-bye, or to-morrow, or to-day? My conscience is clear."

"Your father--" I persisted.

She nodded. "Yes, yes, you speak truth, alas! And yet you must
be freed. And"--here she got to her feet, and with flashing eyes
spoke out--"and you shall be set free. Let come what will, I owe
my first duty to you, though all the world chatter; and I will
not stir from that. As soon as I can make it possible, you
shall escape."

"You shall have the right to set me free," said I, "if I must go
to your father's house. And if I do not go there, but out to my
own good country, you shall still have the right before all the
world to follow, or to wait till I come to fetch you."

"I do not understand you, Robert," said she. "I do not--" Here
she broke off, looking, looking at me, and trembling a little.