"Gil--husband--thy wife or death's!" she sobbed, as she passionately kissed his sunburned face. "Then you will come, sweet!" he cried. "Quick, thy cloak and hood." "Nay, Gil, dearest Gil, I cannot leave." "Mace!" "Do not reproach me," she said, sadly. "Gil, dear Gil, I love thee with all my heart, but I could not flee from here while hope remained." "And does it remain here?" he said, bitterly. "Yes, dearest," she whispered. "My father may repent; Sir Mark may never return. While there is either of those to cling to, I could not go." "But, if they were gone, would you come? Tell me quickly." There was a dead silence, during which the chirp, as of a bird, was once more heard. "There is something wrong, sweet, and I must go; but tell me, were both those hopes gone, would you come?" Again there was silence, and then once more the chirp of the bird. "Gil," whispered Mace, with her lips to his ear, "I cannot leave my father while there is hope. If this fails me, on the eve of my wedding-day, come, and I will flee with thee to the great world's end." "Seal it," he whispered. "Gil!" "Seal thy promise, sweet," he whispered. "My arms fail me; I cannot draw thee to my breast. Kiss me, sweet wife, for my wife thou art." Her lips slowly lowered themselves to his, rested there for long, and then were raised, as a thrill of joy shot through the young man's breast. "On the eve of the day appointed for the wedding, then, I will be here, to take thee away. Father Brisdone shall be on board my ship, the boat lie waiting, and there shall be good men and true to protect thee, love. You will not fail?" "I will not fail," she whispered. "There goes one hope," he said, as lights shone through the trees on the track beside the Pool. "Sir Mark has come." Mace uttered a faint cry. "Nay, love, that should be a cry of joy," he whispered. "I go hence happy, for the prize is mine." Her arms relaxed, and he dropped from the window, and stole cautiously away; but on every hand he found that some one was on the watch, and that Sir Mark's people, who were more able than he had expected, were at every turn. They had not seen him come, but partly from suspicion, partly because they half expected that the announcement of Sir Mark's return upon the following night might be merely a ruse to throw them off their guard, they were particularly watchful; and, as they had anticipated, so it happened, for there was their leader at the gate. A few blows and a struggle, and Gil could easily have escaped, but that would have interfered with his plans; and hence he was doubly cautious, the result being that just as the horsemen bearing lights reached the house, Gil had crept back and crouched beneath his mistress's window, unable to get unseen away. "Gil," she whispered. "I am here, sweet. They will see me if you stay. Go in, and close thy casement."