“At her solicitation, and solely for her sake. For her sake, then, and for mine, too, if you consider not your own, I beg you will be secret in your departure—and above all, speedy. You must be especially on your guard against Jeremiah Filson, who still lodges at the public-house in the village yonder. Were I in your place, I wouldn’t pass through the village, I would go to Burndale and take conveyance there. But however you proceed, though I may seem inhospitable to urge it, you should set out immediately. You have money, I believe: if not, my purse—though I could wish it better lined—” “Nay, a thousand thanks, but I have enough. As to this release, I know not what to say: I never would have asked it—” “But you must accept it, for the sake of her who did ask it. I well know you would have stood to our compact. Stay not for protestations or thanks: the sooner you are gone, the better for us all.” “But ’tis not yet ten o’clock.” “Good heaven, sir, does it not follow that our agreement is annulled by your release if you accept it?—and your duty to her leaves you no choice but to accept. Will you stand upon an hour or two, when you’ve had near full benefit of the bargain for nothing, as it turns out?” “You are right,” said Everell, with humility. “I will go as soon as I have said farewell to her.” “But, my dear sir, that very ordeal is one you must spare her. Do you not see how the case stands? She was in great terror lest you should be given up: relieved upon that point, she asks no more. She is content with having gained your life: in that mood, she is willing to forego another meeting. It would only start her grief afresh: for that reason, I advised her to go to her room. As you value her peace, you must depart without seeing her.” “Depart without seeing her!” Everell looked wistfully toward the hall, through which she must have passed to reach her apartments. He fetched a long and tremulous sigh; then bethought him of the miniature, and, taking it out, stood gazing on it with moist eyes. He gently kissed it, and replaced it in his pocket. “Well, sir, heaven knows I wouldn’t cause her fresh grief. But this I may ask—nay, must know:—when shall I be permitted to see her again?” “’Tis not in my power to answer, your own future being unknown to me. Certainly you mustn’t see her during your present stay in England—which, if you are wise, you will devote entirely to getting out of England. As to the future more distant, all depends upon how matters shape themselves.” “At least, then, I may hope! She will be true, I know. There will be an amnesty some day, and I may return to England without danger. In the meantime, you—and she—may be coming to France. I will write to her from there.”