“Do you really think that any gentleman could have seen the poor old Primate fall to the ground and not have offered to help him up?” he said. “Long before I went to London you knew that I hated his system; and if the Royal Army indeed prevails now, the Archbishop, with all his tyrannies, will be brought back, the Puritans will be driven from the land or left to languish in gaol, and Mr. John Hampden--the patriot who tried to save us from the curse of ship-money--will probably die on the scaffold with the other Parliamentary leaders. Now, perhaps, you understand why some of us feel that we must defend our country.” “Then you must choose betwixt what you call your country and me,” said Hilary, drawing herself up proudly. “For I will never be betrothed to a man who is a rebel.” Gabriel breathed hard, his hands clenched and unclenched themselves like those of a man in mortal agony. “And I,” he said at length, throwing back his head, as though choking for want of air--“I, with God’s help, will be true to the Great Charter which bids Englishmen resist any prince who seeks to rob them of their just privileges.” She dropped him a curtsey--not mockingly, but in grave farewell. Then, taking up her sun-bonnet, she turned to leave the room. But Gabriel strode forward and intercepted her, “Hilary!” he cried, passionately, “you cannot end all betwixt us like this.” “I both can and will,” she said, with quiet coldness very little in accordance with her throbbing heart. “It is impossible that matters of State can part those who love,” he urged vehemently. “They are affairs of another sphere--what has our love to do with this hateful war?” “It has this to do with it, that I will not love a man who is a rebel,” said Hilary, proudly. “’Tis the thrice-accursed fighting that hath so changed you,” he said, despairingly. “You, who cannot bear to see a dog hurt, or a boy whipped for thieving, can glory over the fifty Englishmen killed at Powick Bridge!” “Yes, for their rebellion is justly punished,” she said, “and I punish yours in the only way open to me. Go, sir! I will look upon your face no more.” She drew back from the door and motioned to him imperiously to leave her. Gabriel paused for a minute as though to gather his strength together. It was no time now to argue, to plead; words availed naught. The time for deeds had come, the call to be true to country and conscience. With a look of reproachful love that was to haunt her all her life long, he bowed low, and quitted the room in silence. For a few minutes Hilary sat down calmly to her fruit-stoning: then all at once the pride that had upheld her gave way, and, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed as if her heart were broken. CHAPTER VIII. “Who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o’er with fears, Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm, In reason weak.”