“Dearest girl, he will be glad!” Here Frank went over the whole story again, and added—“And Zuleime, have you no love, no pity left from your father to bestow upon the poor soldier who loves you so, and who is going out to the Indian frontier, where he may lose his scalp, or be burned alive, or eaten raw within a month by the red-skins? Will you refuse his last prayer?” etc., etc., etc. Over and over again, fervently, earnestly, imploringly, despairingly he repeated the argument and the prayer, while he held the maiden “half willing, half afraid.” “She who hesitates is lost,” it is said. Zuleime hesitated a long time, and, consequently, was lost to all eternity. What could she oppose, indeed, to what seemed so right and reasonable? With a deep sigh she yielded at last. There was no path that way down into the glen, and the descent was deep and precipitous, and overgrown with stunted cedar, pine and thorn bushes. So, Romeo and Juliet began to clamber down, by foot-holds of jagged rocks, and fist-holds of thorn bushes, to the great risk of wounded hands and torn pants and petticoats. And so it was in rather a disordered state of attire, as well as in an excited state of mind, that they at last arrived before the door of Father Lawrence’s cell, and rapped. While they waited for the old man to appear, Frank, very much to the surprise of Zuleime, drew from his vest pocket a license—a regular _bona fide_ license, signed by the clerk of R—— county, and sealed with the county seal. Resting his foot upon the door-step, he took off his hat, turned it down on his knee, laid the license upon its top, and drawing from his other pocket a travelling pen and ink case, proceeded to write the names of Francis Rutland Fairfax and Zuleime Dovilliers Clifton in the blank spaces.