Next day they went back to Good Hope. They wanted to be as far as possible from the long-armed men of Windsor. With curses both loud and deep, Van Curter led his men home, closed his gates, and sat down to think. “Who is Boston Bainbridge?” he asked of Captain Van Zandt. “The devil himself,” replied that worthy. “At least, he is something more than a peddler. Did you see him fight? Our men went down like grass before the mower. He has powerful arms.” “Poor Carl is disfigured for life. First, that blow he took from Barlow spread his nose all over his face, and now his head is broken. He will go mad if he does not get revenge.” “Where is he?” “The surgeon has him.” “That was a bad failure.” “Bad! I should think so. But who, I ask you, would have thought it possible for two men to escape from such a net? I would have periled my soul on my power to hold Barlow; but my head struck a stone. That will be settled sometime. When we meet again with swords in our hands, one or the other must die. Where is Theresa?” Van Curter pointed to the door of the next room. The young man rose, pushed open the door, and entered. Theresa sat at a table, engaged in some household duty. She looked up with an odd sort of smile as he entered. “Have you no welcome for me, Theresa?” he asked, in a tone of passionate entreaty. “Would it not be better, Joseph, for us to cease at once at _playing_ friendship, when I, at least, have not a spark of respect for you in my heart?” “When did I become so hateful to you?” he asked, in a low tone. “I was afraid of you always; but the time from which I ceased to hold even respect toward you was when you struck your hand upon this table, and swore to kill Willie Barlow.” “You do not remember, Theresa, that those words were spoken in the heat of passion, aroused by your refusal of me. Would a man with any heart have said less? Listen to me, Theresa Van Curter, and mark my words well. You have it in your power to make for yourself and for me a glorious destiny. I have influence in the old world. There is nothing I can not claim in the way of honor and wealth. My love for you is so entire that you can shape me as you will. My nature only needs a guiding hand—a loving, tender, womanly hand like yours. Be my wife. We will turn our backs forever upon this new country and all its bad associations, and make a new life in our own fatherland.” Theresa mused. His appeal had been so impassioned, so full of heart, that it was not in her nature to hurt his feelings. He noted her indecision: “You hesitate, my darling! I have not given you time enough. You want more. Take it. Weeks, months, a year! I can wait, only give me some hope, and promise that you will no longer listen to this plotting Englishman.” “Do not deceive yourself, Joseph,” she said. “It is not in my power to do as you ask. Spare me any longer speech upon the subject. It is only just to me that you should cease.” “You are hasty; you should take time.”