"I know all, sweet," he whispered back. "But hush, speak beneath your breath. You are watched at every turn, and it was only by setting two of my men to lead the spies upon a false scent that I could get to the window. Oh, my darling, I could die now after this joyful meeting. I have not doubted of thy love--not much; but I did not know how thou mightest be forced." "Oh! Gil, Gil, I am most miserable," she moaned. "I know it, sweet. Father Brisdone has told me all. But, there, you will listen to me now. Mace, dearest, you will not wed this man?" "Gil, I was thinking when you came to-night I'd make the Pool my wedding-bed." "My own!" he whispered, as he longed to press her in his arms--the arms that clung painfully to the window-sill to keep his face on a level with hers. "I was so miserable I wished myself dead." "But now?" he asked. "Now," she said, forgetting all timidity in her joy, as she clung more closely to him, "Now I wish to live." "And you will go with me?" "What? leave my home--my father?" she said, half in amaze that he should propose such a thing, and with all a woman's inconsistency, though so few minutes before she had thought of fleeing to Father Brisdone to seek a home abroad. "Yes, when it is no longer a home to thee, sweet. Give me the name of husband, Mace, my own old love. I have but moments to say it to thee. Come with me now from this window. I have half a dozen men waiting. Four shall help to guard you to our hiding-place while two go to the old iron-pits and fetch thence Father Brisdone. He shall wed us at once. Or we will away to my boat in the little river and go down to my ship, where let even the King seek thee if he dare." "Oh, Gil--dear Gil, I cannot!" she faltered. "Quick," he whispered. "Hold me tightly, sweet, for my arms are failing. Look here, Janet shall come if thou wilt." "Nay, nay, she is false." "Then come without her, sweet. Come, and be my own wife, and let us laugh at this intruder, who would rob us both of a happy life." "No, no, no!" she faltered, as she clung to him. "I cannot come--I cannot come." "You do not trust me," he said. "Oh! hush, hush, Gil!" she moaned. "I do trust you, and love you with all my heart. I will die sooner than that man shall clasp me as his wife, but I cannot, cannot flee my home like this." "Yes, yes, dearest, quick, you must decide," he whispered, as a faint chirp was heard. "I cannot, Gil. My father--my poor father, I cannot leave him." "Mace, dearest, you torture me and yourself. You will come." "Nay, nay, I cannot." "What! Will you stay to be this man's wife?" "No! Sooner death," she cried. "He may not return." "He is on his way." "Oh, no, no," she whispered, shuddering. "I could not be his wife. He may not come--a thousand things may happen. Oh, Gil, Gil, do not tempt me to do wrong." "Nay, nay, I'll not tempt thee, sweet. 'Tis no temptation to say, `Be my wife.' Is it so sad a fate?"