“No, no--always no. Do you think there is any danger on earth from which I would accept your protection? Go to Olivia Berkeley. She would marry you in your poverty if it suited her whim, and be a millstone around your neck. Go to her, I say.” Pembroke watched her figure disappearing in the dusk along the faint white line of the road. He stood still with his horse’s bridle in his hand, turning over bitter things in his mind. He thought he would not go to Isleham that night. He was depressed and conscience-stricken, and in no lover-like mood. He mounted his horse and rode slowly back to Malvern. CHAPTER XII. WHEN two weeks had passed, Pembroke still had not gone to Isleham--but in that time much had happened. The congressional convention had been held, and the ball had been opened for him by Cave with great brilliancy and power--and after a hard fight of two days, Pembroke had got the nomination for Congress. It was of infinite satisfaction to him in many ways. First because of the honor, which he honestly coveted--and again because of the ready money his election would bring. Modest as a congressional salary would be, it was at least in cash--and that was what he most needed then. He did not have a walk over. The parties were about evenly divided, and it was known that the canvass would be close and exciting. Pembroke warmed to his work when he knew this. It was like Bob Henry’s trial--it took hold of his intellectual nature. He was called magnetic--and he had a nerve power, a certain originality about him that captivated his audiences.