"I seek not for compliments," she answered impatiently. "I would know the cause of thy unreasonable conduct." "Thou seekest for a reason, behold thou hast it. Margaret, I have spent a great treasure; have slain two gallant gentlemen; have left the luxuries and pleasures of my own country to become a wanderer in a strange land; have traversed countless leagues of trackless ocean and boundless forest, my very life at the mercy of these roving savages. Have imperiled all, Margaret--wealth, position, title, reputation, and for what?" "Yes, for what?" she answered, her head held proudly erect. "It has been worse than wasted." "'Tis for this," he cried, and he advanced a step nearer to her--"because I love thee." My lady's face had grown scornful, her eyes flashed, for she came of a noble line, and when once aroused, the Carroll blood could be hot and fierce. "Thou hadst best save thy breath," she answered contemptuously. "Thou art like a child, that frets and whimpers for the moon." "Art thou made of stone?" he cried, "that naught can touch thy cold heart? What more wouldst thou have. I have dared all, endured all, for thy sake, and yet thou still dost frown--hast thou no smile?" "Not for such as thee," she answered calmly, turning her back upon him and looking out into the gloom. "Perhaps thou thinkest that they be for Sir Thomas Winchester," he said with a scowl. "Fool not thyself, proud lady, thy lover is dead--died with such torture as thy mind knows not, devised with all the ingenuity that the savage Indian can contrive. Thy smile shall never more be for him." Margaret had grown paler, but her courage did not fail her for an instant. "If he be dead," she replied piteously, "he was something that in thy whole life thou hast never been, nor conceived of--a brave and gallant gentleman." "It may be so," he answered, "but I had rather be a live man with the Lady Margaret Carroll, than a dead gentleman, though he be a saint." "Beast!" she cried, in anger and despair. "I loathe thee! Even the very savages have some mercy on their helpless victims, but thou knowest not what mercy is." "Not where thou art concerned," he answered steadily. "Cost what it may, thou shalt be mine." And folding his arms upon his chest, he looked at her as though he would imprint every feature of her face indelibly upon his brain. "Name my ransom," she said. "Any price--though it take every penny of my estate, I will pay it gladly and willingly," and she turned again and faced him imploringly. "What wouldst thou do here, alone in this wilderness? Thou wouldst lose thyself amid its dark shades; be devoured by some wild beast, or fall into the hands of the Indians, beside which captivity in my hands would be a paradise." "It matters not," she cried eagerly, her face alight with hope. "Better to die at the stake, than to endure such as this. Name but thy price, and it shall be paid."