"I see how it is," said Osborne. "Yes--you do with me as you will--I feared this, and yet I thought myself firm; do with me as you will--call the jailer--I will surrender myself." He turned pale as death, and tottered to a chair. Falkner turned his back on him--"Go, sir!" he repeated, "I reject your sacrifice." "No, father, no," cried Elizabeth, eagerly; "say not so--you accept it--and I also, with thanks and gratitude: yet it is no sacrifice, Mr. Osborne--I assure you that is not, at least, the sacrifice you fear--all is far easier than you think--there is no prison for you--your arrival need not yet be known--your consent being obtained, a pardon will be at once granted--you are to appear as a witness--not as a--" her voice faltered--she turned to Falkner, her eyes brimming over with tears. Osborne caught the infection; he was touched--he was cheered also by Elizabeth's assurances, which he hoped that he might believe; hitherto he had been too frightened and bewildered to hear accurately even what he had been told--he fancied that he must be tried--the pardon might or might not come afterward--the youth, earnestness, and winning beauty of Elizabeth moved him; and now that his fears were a little allayed, he could see more clearly, he was even more touched by the appearance of his former benefactor. Dignity and yet endurance--suffering as well as fortitude--marked his traits; there was something so innately noble, and yet so broken by fortune, expressed in his commanding yet attenuated features and person--he was a wreck that spoke so plainly of the glorious being he had once been; there was so much majesty in his decay--such real innocence sat on his high and open brow, streaked though it was with disease--such lofty composure in his countenance, pale from confinement and suffering--that Osborne felt a mixture of respect and pity that soon rose above every other feeling. Reassured with regard to himself, and looking on his patron with eyes that caught the infection of Elizabeth's tears, he came forward--"I beg your pardon, Mr. Falkner," he said, "for my doubts--for my cowardice, if you please so to name it; I request you to forget it, and to permit me to come forward in your behalf. I trust you will not disdain my offer; though late, it comes, I assure you, from my heart." There was no mock dignity about Falkner; a sunny smile broke over his features as he held out his hand to Osborne. "And from my heart I thank you," he replied, "and deeply regret that you are to suffer any pain through me--mine was the crime, you the instrument; it is hard, very hard, that you should be brought to this through your complaisance to me; real danger for you there is none--or I would die this worst death rather than expose you to it."