‘We may not meet again for many, many months--perhaps never in this world. Do you think I am a man of marble that I cannot feel? Do you think _mine_ is a happy lot, thus to leave all I value or esteem and take not even hope with me into exile? Mary Hamilton, you will not refuse me what I ask you on such a day as this?’ ‘I would give my life for yours,’ she answered, scarce above her breath. ‘What is it you would have me do?’ ‘Listen,’ he replied. ‘I must be in the saddle soon after nightfall. For reasons I cannot explain to you, it must be supposed by the household that I have departed at sun-down. My very life is in danger, if I am known to have remained. I cannot tell you why. Do you trust me?’ She bowed her head. ‘I trust you,’ she answered, very quietly, and he needed only to look in her face for confirmation of her words. ‘Then grant me my request,’ he resumed. ‘It is a foolish fancy of mine, but _you_ at least cannot blame, though you may scoff at it. There is one person whom I must see the very last before I depart. One face of which I must take the picture with me, into banishment, engraven on my heart, one hand of which the farewell pressure must remain on mine till we meet again. An hour after supper I will be at the door of the small garden into which your apartments open. You will meet me there for the last, _last_ time?’ She looked a good deal frightened and discomposed. ‘But I shall not be dismissed so soon,’ she urged, ‘and if I am absent they will come to look for me everywhere, and oh! I ought not! I ought not!’ He was prepared for her objection--he knew the Queen’s habit so well--this was exactly what he wanted. ‘Nay, then,’ he resumed, ‘I will ask you to risk nothing for my sake; and yet, see the last of the dear face, I must and will. The days are short now. It is already twilight, and it will be as dark as midnight in an hour. I will go make my preparations for departure. Do you, as you enter, unlock the garden-door and take the key with you; it cannot then be fastened from the inside. I will conceal myself amongst the shrubs and wait for you there. As soon as you are dismissed for the night you can come out and bid me farewell.’ ‘It is better not,’ she murmured, in sad perturbation. She could not bear to refuse him, and yet all her womanly feelings revolted at the clandestine nature of such a proceeding. ‘We are close at home now. All good attend you, Chastelâr. I will pray for you night and morning--farewell!’ She gave him her hand, as if to take her final leave, but she had not the heart to withdraw it at once. It lingered long and lovingly in his clasp. ‘Mary!’ said he, and the dear name came so tenderly off his lips. ‘Mary! you will not let me part from you thus?’