“Don’t do that,” said he, “you make me mad.” Again the tumult of his passion swept him down; he put a foot forward as if to approach her, but stopped short as by an immense inward effort. “Nan, Nan, Nan,” he cried so loudly that a more watchful father would have heard it outside. “Nan, Nan, Nan, I must say it if I die for it: I love you! I never felt--I do not know--I cannot tell what ails me, but you are mine!” Then all at once again his mood and accent changed. “Mine! What can I give? What can I offer? Here’s a poor ensign, and never a war with chances in it!” He strode up and down the room, throwing his shadow, a feverish phantom, on the blind, and Nan looked at him as if he had been a man in a play. Here was her first lover with a vengeance! They might be all like that; this madness, perhaps, was the common folly. She remembered that to him she owed her life, and she was overtaken by pity. “Let us say no more about it,” she said calmly. “You alarmed me very much, and I hope you will never do the like again. Let me think I myself was willing”--he started--“that it was some--some playful way of paying off the score I owe you.” “What score?” said he, astonished. “You saved my life,” she answered, all resentment gone. “Did I?” said he. “It would be the last plea I would offer here and now. That was a boy’s work, or luck as it might be; this is a man before you. I am not wanting gratitude, but something far more ill to win. Look at me,” he went on; “I am Highland, I’m a soldier, I’m a man. You may put me to the door (my mother in heaven would not blame you), but still you’re mine.” He was very handsome as he stood upon the floor resolute, something of the savage and the dandy, a man compelling. Nan felt the tremor of an admiration, though the insult was yet burning on her countenance. “Here’s my father,” she said, quickly sitting at the harpsichord again, with her face away from it and the candle-light. Into the room stepped the General, never knowing he had come upon a storm. Their silence surprised him. He looked suspiciously at the lad, who still stood on the floor with his hat in his hand. “You’re not going yet, Islay?” said he, and there was no answer. “Have you two quarrelled?” he asked, again glancing at his daughter’s averted face. Young Islay stammered his reply. “I have been a fool, General, that’s all,” said he. “I brought the manners of the Inn, as your daughter says, into your house, and--” The father caught him by the sleeve and bent a most stern eye. “Well, well?” he pushed. “And--the rest, I think, should be between yourself and me,” said Young Islay, looking at Nan now with her back to them, and he and the father went out of the room. CHAPTER XXV--THE EAVESDROPPER