Then he attempted a sort of shuttling bow, and left the room awkwardly, like a cowed cur, fearful of the lash; but when they were left alone, the obstinate old man stood up, and walking straight to his daughter, shook his fore-finger sternly in her face, and said, “You know me, Margaret. I am not a man of many words, but when I have spoken, I never go backward from my speech.” “I know it,” she said, firmly, “and I am of your own blood, father, and not base-born.” “And I have said that you shall marry Andrew Acton.” “And I, that I will die sooner.” “Enough of this!” he replied. “I am no dotard, to be driven from my just purpose for a silly girl’s love-sick fancies.” “Nor I,” she answered, “a mere puppet, to be driven to misery, and perchance to sin, for a father’s prejudice. Oh, hear me!” she cried the next moment, altering her tone, and throwing herself at his feet, “oh, hear me, beloved father! spare me, but spare me this one thing! force me not, for God’s sake, to be this odious varlet’s wife! bind me not to this life of anguish! and I will swear never to marry any one without your free consent; nay, I will swear never to ask for your consent; never to meet, or see, or speak to the only man on earth whom I can love. Oh, grant me, grant me, father, this one, this reasonable prayer. I adjure you, by your own gray hairs, by my dead mother’s soul, do not, do not drive me to madness and despair.” “Margaret, listen. It is now Wednesday at evening. A ship sails from Bristol one week hence this day, for St. Maloes. At Rennes there is a nunnery of Ursulines, wherein my sister is the prioress. On Wednesday next, by that ship you sail, to take your vows in that nunnery, or you accept Sir Andrew Acton as your husband. Are you answered? I have spoken.” “I am answered,” she replied, rising slowly to her feet. “And I, too, have spoken—I will die sooner. May God forgive you, father, you know not unto what you drive me.” She moved away as if to leave the room, but ere she reached the door she turned again, and stretching out her arms, cried in a piteous voice, “One boon, at least, one boon, my father. On Tuesday night you shall have my answer; but, oh! for the love of God, let me not during this one week, be tormented by his hateful presence.” “Be it so,” replied the old man, thinking that she was about to yield. “Whither go you now?” “To bed, to bed. Would that I never might rise thence any more.” But ere she laid her down, she took a large pair of scissors and clipped the circle of her ring asunder, unseen by her waiting-woman; and then giving it to her, bade her carry it to old Jeremy, the forester, and let him bear it to the goldsmith at Stratford the next morning.