“And is your resolution unchangeable, Julia?” said Mark Antony, as he clasped her hand. The girl burst into tears, and faintly answered in the affirmative. “Hear me, Julia,” said the fosterer, “before you decide; and believe that every word that passes my lips comes directly from the heart. You say that you have no relations; no one to shelter and protect you; none to love you. Julia, why then reject me? Why should we not unite our fates and battle with the world as we can? Alas! I have nothing to offer you but a warm heart and a stout arm. I’ll work for you--toil for you--fight for you. Will you not then let me love you, Julia?” God help the worthy fosterer! With all his soul he was ready to commit matrimony on the moment; and without the slightest knowledge of the means by which he might secure a living for himself, he would have freely undertaken the maintenance of another still more helpless. “Mark,” said the wanderer, for the first time calling him by that name, “I value your kindness as I should; and think not, in declining to accept your generous offers, that I am cold to your deserving. Far from it. If any happiness were reserved for me, I feel that it would be in uniting my wrecked and wretched fortunes to yours. Nay more; had I enough for both, and that hereafter this blighted heart could ever love again, I would press you to accept my wealth and my affections; for I might safely conclude that with him who offered a husband’s protection to my wretchedness, under altered circumstances, I could not fail in being happy. But no; I will not swamp your young fortunes with mine. My resolution is already formed--and we must part.” Again the ardent Irishman pressed his suit upon the wanderer; but, true to her determination, the fosterer’s overtures were gratefully but firmly rejected. “We have yet,” she said with a sigh? “three long long miles to travel. Oh! how weary will they be!--for my heart grows heavier and heavier still!--Ha! what mischief is abroad? Look--yonder stands that ruffian Jew--and see, he points his finger to this window.” “Who and what is the scoundrel?” inquired the fosterer. “I cannot tell,” returned the girl, “he joined a strolling party, from which I separated ere I met you. They are sought by outcasts like him and me. Another vagabond who accompanied him, in a drunken quarrel, taxed the Jew with being familiarized to every crime, and added, that he was a returned convict. What his designs regarding me were I cannot tell. When I left the wandering company, he followed--but, thank Heaven! you came--and if he meant me harm, your protection saved me.” In the mean time, the Jew had disappeared, and Mark Antony endeavoured to persuade his companion that this second meeting was accidental. The girl shook her head. Steps ascended the stairs, the door was unceremoniously opened, and Mr. Montague entered the room, attended by two men, who announced themselves to be officers of justice.