Everell sighed deeply, and it is no use denying that he looked plaintive and miserable. “But what if I propose an alternative?” said Foxwell. “What if I offer to make you our guest here—for a week—as free as any other guest, except that you may not leave the grounds or put yourself in danger of discovery,—a guest with all the opportunities of meeting my niece that a recognized suitor might have?” It was a moment before Everell could speak. “Sir, what does all this mean?” he cried. “Is it a jest? In God’s name, don’t hold out such a prospect merely to play with me.” “’Tis a prospect in your power of realizing, upon my honour.” “Then your generosity—but generosity is too mean a word—I know not how to describe your action, nor to express my gratitude.” “Pray wait till you have heard the condition: to everything there is a price.” “Whatever it be, ’twere cheap payment for such happiness. I won’t disguise my love for your niece, sir: why should I, when I began by confessing it? To be with her all the day, without anxiety or risk—” “For a week, I said.” “Such a week will be worth a lifetime!” Everell declared. “’Tis well you count it so, for that is the price at which it is offered. At the end of the week, I mean, you shall be given up to the authorities. If you accept this proposal, you will engage upon your honour to surrender yourself at the appointed hour, and to forego all chance of escape—though at the same time every precaution will be taken to make sure of you.” “At the end of the week—given up?” repeated Everell, again startled and open-eyed. “Given up to the officers of justice, with advice to use special care against your escape—though, indeed, your word of honour will be the better security. As to what will follow—your conveyance to York, your trial, and the rest—” Foxwell gave a shrug in lieu of finishing the sentence. “A week,” said Everell, rather to himself than to the company, “a week with _her_—to be absolutely _sure_ of that!—” “A week with her,” said Foxwell, “and then to face the judges. A few tedious days of imprisonment and trial—hardly to be reckoned as days of life—and ‘the rest is silence,’ as the play says. How many possible years of life is it you would forfeit to pay for this week? Two score, perhaps,—and some of them years of fine young manhood, too. Well, the choice is yours. You may give life for love, if you wish. Or love for life, if you will:—my first offer still holds—’tis still in your power to go from this neighbourhood at once, perfectly free, and to find your way abroad. Egad, when I think how many joyous days and merry nights lie between your age and mine!—Life is pleasant in France.” “I well know that,” said Everell, whose thoughts had responded to the other’s words. “There are friends, I dare say, who would not be sorry to see you again.” “Friends, yes,—dear friends!” mused Everell. “’Tis not fair, Foxwell,” Lady Strange put in; “you are influencing him.”