Still I desired to stand well with her; and that being so I confess that it was with relief I remembered my lameness; and named it to her. Passing over the harshness of her last words, "You are right," I said. "Something should be done. But for me it is impossible at present. I am lame, as you see." "Lame?" she cried. "More than lame," I answered--but there was that in her tone which bade me avoid her eyes. "A cripple, Mary." "No, not a cripple," she answered. "Yes," I said. "No, Dick," she answered in a voice low, but so grave and firm that I winced. "Let us be frank for once. Not a cripple, but a coward." "I never said I was a soldier," I answered. "Nor I," she replied, wilfully misunderstanding me. "I said, a coward! And a coward I will not marry!" With that we looked at one another: and I saw that her face was white. "Was it a coward saved your life--in the Square?" I muttered at last. "No," she answered. "But it was a coward played the sneak for Ferguson. And a coward played the rogue for Smith! It was a coward lost Fenwick--because he dare not look behind! And a coward who will now sacrifice his benefactor, to save his own skin. And _you_ only know in how many other things you have played the craven. But the rather for that, up, now, and play the man! You have a chance now! Do this one brave thing and all will be forgiven. Oh, Dick, Dick!" she continued--and with a sudden blaze in her face she stooped and threw her arms round me, "if you love me, do it! Do it for us both! Do it--or if you cannot, God knows it were better we were hung, than married!" I cannot hope to describe the fervour, which she threw into these last words, or the effect which they wrought on me, weakened as I was by long illness. In a voice broken by tears I conjured her to give me time--to give me time; a few days in which to consider what I would do. "Not a day!" she answered, springing from me in fresh excitement, and as if my touch burned her. "I will give you no time. You have had a lifetime, and to what purpose? I will give you no time. Do you give me your word." "To go to England?" "Yes." I was ashake from head to foot; and groaned aloud. In truth if I had known the gallows to be the certain and inevitable end of the road, on which I was asked to enter, I could not have been more sorely beset; between rage and fear, and shame of her and desire for her. But while I hung in that misery, she continuing to stand over me, I looked, as it happened, in her face; and I saw that it was no longer hot with anger, but sad and drawn as by a sharp pain. And I gave her my word, trembling and shaking. "Now," said she, "are you a brave man; and perhaps the bravest." CHAPTER XLI