"Have you no pity for such love as mine, Mollie? Is your heart made of stone, that all my devotion can not melt it?" To his horror, she broke into a discordant, mirthless laugh. "His devotion! He tears me away from my friends, he locks me up in a dungeon until he drives me mad! His devotion!" She laughed hysterically again. "It seems harsh, Mollie, but it is not meant in harshness. If there were any other way of winning you, you know I would never resort to such extreme measures. I am not the only man that has carried off the woman he loved, when other means failed to win her." Again he came nearer, holding out his hands with an imploring gesture. "Only say that you will try and love me--only say that you will be my wife--promise me on your word of honor, and I will take you back to New York this day!" But Mollie's answer was to raise her formidable knife. "One step more," she said, glaring upon him with suppressed fury--"one step nearer, if you dare!" He saw in her face it was no idle threat, and he recoiled. "Stay here, then," he angrily cried, "since you will have it so! It is your own fault, and you must abide the consequences. Mine you shall be, by fair means or foul! I leave you now, since my presence does no good, but by this day week you will be sailing with me to sunny Cuba. There I can have things my own way, and your high-tragedy airs will avail you little." He walked to the door, turned, paused. She stood like a statue, white as marble, but with, oh! such fiercely burning eyes! "I have brought you an attendant," he said, sullenly. "I will send her up for those things," pointing to the untasted dinner; "she will wait upon you during the brief time you are to remain here." She never moved. She stood there white and defiant and panting, her glittering eyes riveted to his face. With a sullen oath he opened the door and walked out, baffled once more. "Curse the little vixen!" he muttered, as he stalked down-stairs; "she's made of the stuff that breaks but never bends. I believe in my soul if I was to carry her off to sea to-morrow she would leap overboard and end it all the day after. I wish I had never listened to Blanche's tempting. I wish I had left the little termagant in peace. The game isn't worth the candle." He found Mrs. Susan Sharpe sitting where he had left her, with her imperturbable face still turned to the fire, her bonnet and shawl still on. "Take off those things!" he ordered, harshly, pointing to the offending garments--it was a relief to vent his spleen on some one. "Why the deuce don't you take her to her room?" turning savagely upon Sally. "Let her have the chamber next my patient, and then go into her room and fetch away the tray, and see what you can do for her." He flung himself into a chair. Mrs. Sharpe rose with an immovable face.