"Clinton," said Mittie, breaking the silence in a low, oppressed voice, "I see you have one virtue left, of the wreck of all others. I honor that one. You asked me why I came. I will tell you. I knew you guilty, steeped in ignominy, the scorn and by-word of the town, guilty too of a crime more vile than murder, for murder may be committed from the wild impulse of exasperated passion--but theft is a cold, deliberate, selfish, coward act. Yet knowing all this, I felt willing to brave every danger, to face death itself, if it were necessary, to release you from the horrid doom that awaits you--to save you from the living grave which yawns to receive you. I am willing still, in spite of your alienated affection, your perjured vows and broken faith--so mighty and all-conquering is even the memory of the love of woman. Here, wrap this cloak about you, pull this cap over your brows--your long, dark hair will aid the disguise. The jailer will not detect it, or mark your taller figure, by this dim and gloomy light. He is sleepy and weary, and I know his senses are deadened by brandy; I perceived its burning fumes as we walked that close and narrow passage. Clinton, there is no danger to myself in this release, you know there is not. The moment they discover me, they will let me go. Hasten, for he will soon be here." "Impossible," exclaimed Clinton, "I cannot consent; I cannot leave you in this cell--this cold, fireless cell, on such a night as this. I cannot expose you to your father's displeasure, to the censures of the world. No, Mittie, I am not worthy of this generous devotion; but from my soul I bless you for it. Besides, it would be all in vain. A discovery would be inevitable." "Escape would be certain," she cried, with increasing energy. "I marked that jailer well--his senses are too much blunted for the exercise of clear perception. You are slender and not very tall; your face is as fair as mine, your hair of the same color. If you refuse, I will seek a colder couch than that pallet of straw; I will pass the night under the leafless trees, and my pillow shall be the snowy ground. As for my father's displeasure, I have incurred it already. As for the censures of the world, I scorn them. What do you call the world? This village, this town, this little, narrow sphere? I live in a world of my own, as high above it as the heavens are above the earth." Clinton's opposition weakened before her commanding energy. The hope of freedom kindled in his breast, and lighted up his countenance. "But you," said he, irresolutely, "even if you could endure the horrors of the night, cannot be concealed on his entrance. How can you pass for me?" he cried, looking down on her woman's apparel, for she had thrown the cloak over his arm, and stood in her own flowing robes.