"Yes," I answered, "my place is here. I could not bear to see thee the bride of another." "Am I to be wedded without my consent, sir?" she said archly, and she broke into a low, sweet laugh. "But thou dost love Bobby? Thou didst as good as tell me that in the prison yonder in England." "Thou didst take it for granted," she said shyly. "I was overpowered with sorrow at thy sad plight, and thou didst jump at the conclusion that I loved Sir Robert," and she looked at me, a smile shining through her tears. "Whom dost thou love, if not Bobby?" I cried in wonder. "Dost love anyone, Margaret?" and I bent low over the golden head. "Yes," she answered softly, "I love a gentleman, brave, strong, noble, with a heart as true as steel; one who has loved me long." "Who is it, Margaret?" She looked up at me, with a smile soft and sweet, at which my heart gave a great bound of joy--it could not be. No, I must be dreaming. "Must I tell thee, stupid? Are thy wits gone wool-gathering?" With a great cry of joy I took her in my arms, smiles, blushes, and tears, and held her close to my heart. "Dear," I cried, "I never dreamed of this. Why didst thou not tell me before now?" "Because thou didst not ask me. Oh, Thomas, why didst thou not ask me that night in the prison?" "Margaret," I said, "thou shouldst love one handsome and young like thyself. Thou wilt be ashamed of me, sweet one, when thou seest me by the side of some gay, debonair, young gallant." But she gently placed one soft white hand over my lips. "Hush, not one word more, or I will vanish into yonder woods. Thou art more handsome in my eyes than any velvet gallant, for thou hast become a man of deeds, not words. Thou wilt go back with me to England," she whispered, her face close to mine; "together we can face the Queen, and I will have thee pardoned." "Yes," I answered, "come what will, we go back together." "When didst thou first love me, Margaret?" I asked, my eyes upon the bright head against my shoulder. "I do not know," she said. "I only know that as I stood beside thee in the prison cell in London, I knew that thy life was strangely precious to me. But good-night," she said, "I must keep my roses or thou wilt soon tire of me." And slipping from me, she tripped lightly away. A light hand touched my arm. I turned and saw Manteo. "The beautiful one will go with the Eagle to his lodge and be his squaw?" he said gravely. "Yes," I answered, "she will go." "Manteo is glad," he said simply, "for it is meet that the lady who is lovely beyond all mortal beauty, should go into the lodge with the Eagle, who is a great chief." "I thank thee, Manteo." And I followed him down by the camp fire, and stretched myself out upon my bearskin. My mind was in a whirl--I had not dreamed that Margaret loved me. I--gray, penniless; she--young and beautiful beyond compare. And with thoughts such as these, and of the future, I fell asleep. CHAPTER XIX THE JOURNEY'S END