"Are you sure of this?" sighed the youth, as if he half regretted that his brother had not done so. "Are you sure of this?" "Quite so--quite so! To no one else would I speak it, but I am sure of your goodness. I know you will not betray me." "Never, Margaret, never!" "Well, then, these very hands healed the wound which your brother gave him. I myself nursed him through his dangerous illness; and I know at this time that he is in a respectable foreign merchant's service, and as well as ever he was." This was a tremendous blow to the young man's prospects; an answer which he did not in the least expect, and from which he could find no encouragement. He begged Margaret's pardon for what he had said, which was freely given, and a promise made on both sides never to divulge that day's secret. Alas! this promise was broken by both, as we shall presently see, at the very same moment. But where is Laud, and what is he doing at this time? While the honest-hearted girl is denying all attachment to any but himself, and living upon the hope of his future welfare and well-doing, what is _he_ about? He is standing at the Green Cottage, as it was called, on account of the green shutters which used to shade its casements, close to Butley Abbey. The dark-frowning ruin of this seat of the black canons of St. Austin, formerly so grand and extensive, was then in a state of crumbling desolation. Here, close against that magnificent old gateway, seemingly in mock grandeur, was a very fine arch, surmounted with the arms of Michael de la Pole, the third Lord Wingfield, Earl of Suffolk, who was slain at the battle of Agincourt with Edward Plantagenet, Duke of York. Not far from these ruins, with a mind somewhat partaking of the darkness of that desolation, stood Laud and Luff in close conversation; the subject of which was no other than Margaret Catchpole! Luff had found out Laud's deep-rooted fancy for the maiden, and, villain as he was, was proposing a deep-laid scheme for the destruction of the poor girl, who at that very time was undergoing a severe trial of her affection. "I'll tell you what, Laud, the thing is easily to be done. We have nothing to do but to run the cutter, at the beginning of our next voyage, into Harwich Harbour, at the fall of the evening, when the mists hide us from the shore; you and I can run up the Orwell in the gig, and soon carry off the prize. Once on board, and she is yours as long as you like." "I think I shall leave the service and marry."