She did not even add the saving clause: “In all cases not inconsistent with my duty.” She did not dream of doing so. Her pledge to her lover was unconditional because her faith in him was unbounded. Nor was hers the mere blind faith of a loving heart. It seemed to be justifiable, for Colonel Eastworth was a man highly honored by the world, both for his private character and his public services. How could she ever imagine that he would call upon her to forsake her father and her country? Yet this he was about to do. This was the test to which he meant to put her devoted love. And now he believed that the time was ripe for the disclosure of his plans. Now he felt assured that she was truly and unreservedly his own—so bound to him, body and soul, that she was not only ready to suffer with him, but willing to sin for him, if he should wish her to do so. “Erminie,” he said, looking down into her loving, trustful, fervent face, “Erminie, you have pledged your faith to me by a very solemn oath—‘As my soul lives.’” “Yes! And I repeat it. ‘As my soul lives!’ And if there could be an oath more solemn and binding than that, without being profane, I would pledge you my faith by it!” “Erminie,” he stooped and whispered, “you are already almost my wife!” “Oh, yes; I consider myself so. With us, you know, betrothal is as sacred as marriage,” she murmured. “Then, my beloved, what I wish you to do is to become my wife in reality and immediately,” he whispered. “But my father, dear Eastworth! My father would not consent. And besides, he is not here, and will not be here until late to-night,” she answered, when at last she was able to reply. “No, my beloved, your father would not consent. It would be quite useless to ask him even if he were here; and he is not here. We must act, Erminie, without consulting your father!” “Oh, Eastworth, not without my dear father’s consent. I could not—I could not strike such a blow at my father’s heart,” she pleaded, plaintively, not as if she could persistently resist his wishes, but as if she were imploring him to spare her the trial. He saw that and took an ungenerous advantage of it. “You do not love me,” he said, coldly and bitterly. He had never spoken to her so roughly before. She looked up at him in surprise and affright. “No, you do not love me, or you would not answer me so,” he repeated, with cruel emphasis. “Oh, I do, I do! Heaven knows how truly and how much!” she said, clasping her hands in the fervor of her feelings. “Erminie,” he said, changing his tone from bitter severity to tender earnestness, “Erminie, I would not ask you to do this were there not the gravest reasons for it. Shall I tell you what these reasons are, my beloved girl?” She dropped her head upon her bosom. Her gesture might have meant assent or despondency. He took it as an assent and he continued: “Erminie, I am obliged to leave, not only this house, but this city, to-night—to leave, not only in haste, but in danger!”