deeply, most keenly; but how else could it have been? Yet if you will
indeed be mine, I will give you my love and gratitude. I will save you
from--from danger; I will--will--bless you." He stopped, and looked at
her with quivering lips, while an expression of agony came across his
face.

But Edith's eyes were downcast now, and she did not see this new anguish
of his; her own distress was too great.

Dudleigh dropped her hand again.

"Where shall it be?" said he, hurriedly and nervously. "It can not be in
the Hall. Will you venture to pass the gates with me?--I will force my
way through--or are you afraid?"

"I can not consent to bloodshed," said Edith.

"I thought of that," said Dudleigh, "and I have one more plan--if you
will only consent. It is not much to you who have suffered so much. It
will make your way to freedom easy. Can we not meet in the park
somewhere--in some secluded place?"

"In the park?" repeated Edith, abstractedly.

"I can bring a clergyman inside," said Dudleigh, in a low voice.

Edith shuddered. The idea was not yet less repugnant than it had been.
But she had consented, and here was this man--her only friend, her
adorer--with all his love and devotion. If she did not love him, she
must pity him. She had also given her word. As to the way in which this