The silence that followed might have been longer but that the young man could not forget, for more than a few seconds at a time, how brief their interview was to be. He imagined, perhaps mistakenly, that the value of such meetings was to be measured in speeches rather than in silences, although he attached full worth to eloquent glances. “When I feel how dull the hours are between these short glimpses of heaven,” said he, “I marvel to think how tedious the years must have been before I saw you, though I knew it not.—I never chafed at danger till now. Sometimes when I lie in the bracken yonder, or pace the dark bottom of the glen, I am tempted to ignore all risks, come boldly to your house, seek the acquaintance of your uncle, and measure my happiness by hours instead of minutes.” “Oh, Everell!—do not think of it!” “Nay, have no fear, sweet. Your commands are sacred with me—till you command me to leave you, or not to love you.” “But if I commanded you earnestly to leave?—resolutely, so that you knew I meant it?” “Could you have the heart to do that?” “Would that I had! I ought to have. But would it be useless?” “As useless as it would be cruel, sweet, I vow to you.” “But ’tis cruel to let you stay. ’Tis a wonder your presence in the neighbourhood isn’t known already—a wonder the poacher hasn’t betrayed you.” “Nay, he is true as steel. We are in the same galley—both rebels, he against the game laws and the world’s injustice, I against the present dynasty. You must know, we outlaws stand together.—You are again in the mood of fearing for my safety. But see how baseless your fears have been so far. Trust our stars, dearest: mine, at least, has ever been fortunate.” “My fears are always returning. Sometimes I have the most poignant feeling of danger surrounding us, of reproach to myself that I was the cause of interrupting your flight. I have that feeling now. Oh, Everell, loth as I am to send you away, I feel in my soul that I ought! My heart, which would keep you here, at the same time urges you to fly: with one beat it calls to you, ‘Stay,’ and with the next cries, ‘Go!’ Oh, why did you not go on with your friend?” “Indeed, ’tis better he and I are apart, since that fellow at the inn knew we travelled together,” replied Everell, trying to reassure her. “If the man really meant to continue dogging us, our separation was the best means of confusing him. Dismiss your fears, sweet. If your regard for me were love rather than compassion,—love such as I have for you,—the only impulse of your heart would be to keep me with you: beyond that, you would not think, either with hope or fear. And yet your compassion, so angelic,—nay, so womanly,—I would rather have than the love of any other woman.”