'Oh, what must he do? How can he be saved?' wailed I, for it seemed to me my beloved, between the villainy of Sir Claudius and the vengeance of Queen Mary's adherents, was like one between Scylla and Charybdis, bound to perish in any case. 'He ought to have a friend,' said the wily voice of Sir Claudius, 'a friend who would set him free and counsel him to quit the country, and procure him a secret passage to Holland----' 'Will you do it?' I interrupted, falling upon my knees before him. 'You say you love me. Then do this thing for me. I will believe you, if you will do it for me,' I went on, beseechingly. 'Set Sir Hubert free, let him leave the country, get him across to Holland, and I will----' I paused. I was going to say, 'esteem you highly and pray for you all my life,' but recognized that would not content him, that indeed he would not care for that. 'You will what?' he asked sharply. 'I will----' again I paused. He would not be content with that which I would promise. 'I will do it on one condition,' he said, 'and only one.' 'And that is?' But I knew, and my heart almost ceased beating, whilst a giddiness to which I was never subject made my head swim. When I could understand him again, he was telling me that if I would promise to marry him he would do all that I wished for Sir Hubert, and more, he would guarantee his safety until he reached Holland, and, if needs be, would personally conduct him to a port from which he could sail. 'But, be generous,' besought I, 'do all that without the heavy price being paid that you have named.' 'Heavy?' He frowned. 'Yes. Most heavy. I cannot pay it! I cannot! But be generous,' I pleaded, 'be generous!' Sir Claudius, seeing me so exceedingly concerned about his rival, fell into an awful rage. 'Generous!' cried he. 'Not I. It is for you to be generous to me--and to him. For I swear unless you promise to marry me--unless I have your promise before night, he shall hang to-morrow morning.' And with that he went out, slamming the door behind him. I fell back in my chair, weeping bitterly. Was ever a more hideous snare laid for a poor girl? I thought with horror of the woes and threatened death of my dear knight. I imagined I saw him lying in the dungeon of which Sir Claudius had been speaking. How very hard was his fate! Not a prisoner of war, he had simply been kidnapped by brigands, as a girl, or a child might have been! Six to one, they had overcome him by sheer physical strength. And he had the misery of knowing that I also was a captive in their power. How he would chafe at the confinement which kept him from my side! What would be his feelings when his jailer told him that he must prepare to die upon the morrow? And on the gallows, too! Despair would be his portion, horror and despair.