“Have you thought about it?” he asked again at length. “Oh! your voice will drive me mad--it’s worse than a corncrake” (and yet it was the voice that Marigold had always dreamt about). “Yes, I have certainly thought about it. I don’t mind to-morrow morning in the least.” “He is not your equal.” “Oh yes. He is the highest dignitary in the Church, and comes of a good family.” Another pause. Then suddenly he took a step nearer to her, and her heart gave a curious flutter of alarm, but her face showed nothing, and the feeling was but momentary. “Marigold--Princess--whatever you are, listen to me.” “No, I won’t,” she said; and put her fingers up to her ears, with all the waywardness a child might show. And suddenly both the delicate wrists were caught in hands as gentle as they were strong. Yet Marigold cried out with a sudden pain, as if he hurt her, and her cheeks went deathly white. But he held her at arm’s length, and his face was stern and set, and every feeling repressed as in a vice of iron. “You have no regard for yourself,” said he. “So now I ask you to think of other people. I am going to make a very unusual, perhaps to you ridiculous, request. I am going to ask you to give up this man for the sake of another woman.” “Ah! has he, too, some one else who loves him?” “No. I ask it for the sake of the woman I love.” The green eyes flashed, and she tried to shake the hands off her wrists. “Ah! that woman--that Rosalie--Rosalie, what is her name?--I hate her. How could any man love such an insipid doll as she?” And her breath came in angry pants. But the shadowy eyes, with their strength and beauty, looked full into hers. “Whatever she is, I love her. That is enough for me. The High Priest harmed and wronged her, but it was done ignorantly, in justifiable bigotry--and--and some dislike. It is forgiven him--mostly forgiven, any way. But her life has been curiously connected with his, and even yet she may be obliged to suffer through him. I love her very much, this woman whom you hate. If you make him sin, as to-night you must do if you persist in staying here, it is she who must suffer for it--she and I. I had hoped to see her very soon--in a few days--to make her my wife. This act of yours will separate us many years again--a lifetime, reckoned on Lucifram.” “And--and I can separate you--by staying here to-night?” The terribly strained expression on his face had only one meaning for Marigold--that of love for another woman. “Yes. You can separate us. Perhaps for ever. I cannot tell.” She burst out laughing. “Then of course I will. What fool do you take me for?” And she wrung her hands free of his, and laughed again in scorn and mockery. When he spoke again, his voice was almost inarticulate. “You remember Timothy?” “What?” “Timothy. You remember him?” “Oh yes. The little Wigg boy.” “This act of yours may also be his death.” “He is dead.” “His spiritual death.”