“Cousin,” I said, “this is not the time or place for us to discuss these matters. It is possible,” I said, looking at him, “that I have been mistaken in you, as you say, and if so, I am indeed sorry, and will strive to make amends. But I think it will be best if you accompany me to my father’s house, and there prosecute your suit--if indeed, you really feel for me what you say--after the fashion usual amongst people of our degree. You must speak to my father first,” says I, with a coquettish glance at him that made him ready to obey me on the instant. “But yourself?” said he. “What answer will you make to me if I fulfil your wishes in this?” “Why,” I said, looking, I daresay, very modest and conscious, “I think that if you really obey me, I may perhaps be found more complaisant than you have fancied, cousin.” “My angel!” he cried, and would have embraced me had I not anticipated some such proceeding on his part and escaped him. “Come,” I said, smiling, “let us have some food, cousin--we have a long ride before us, and for myself I have had little to eat since last night.” He took his seat near me, and I occupied myself in paying him much attention, and seeing to his comfort. As for me, it well-nigh choked me to eat a crumb of bread; but, lest he should observe that I was anxious or pre-occupied, I forced myself to make a hearty meal. Barbara had furnished the table with a flask of my uncle’s old Tokay, and more than once I filled Anthony’s glass with my own hands. What a comedy it all was, and yet what a tragedy seemed to be playing itself out in my heart at the time! When at last he would eat and drink no more, I approached the subject that lay closest to my thoughts. “Now,” thought I, “Heaven send me strength and wit to carry out my project!” And I think my prayer must have been answered quickly, for I spoke with calmness, though every nerve in my body seemed to me to quiver with anxiety and apprehension. “Cousin,” I said, “what will they do with Richard Coope?” He looked at me narrowly. I could see that the mere question raised his jealousy and distrust on the instant. “They will shoot him,” he answered, keeping his eyes on mine. “I supposed they would,” said I, affecting a rare carelessness. “Poor Dick! But ’tis I suppose, the fortune of war, eh, cousin?” “’Tis the treatment always meted out to deserters and traitors,” he said. “Well,” said I, “’tis a pity that a kinsman of ours should die a shameful death, is it not, cousin?” “It is not to the credit of the family,” he answered. “But an offender against the cause must be punished.” “Why,” I said, “I think Dick offended under some misapprehension, and ’tis rather a pity that he should die for that when you and I, cousin, have been so fortunate as to clear away our own misunderstanding. Could we do nothing to save him from so violent a death?” “No,” he said, “naught. By this time it is probably over.”