“What, thee'rt gwain to leave me, then? Zurely, thee bean't in earnest?” Martin had, by this time, reached the door, and was evidently determined on quitting the room. The prisoner, perceiving his intention, immediately assumed a tone of supplication. “Now, doan't thee go, Master Stapleton,” said he; “doan't thee!--do come back--do hear me, if it be but vor a minute. I were wrong, I were, indeed. Doan't thee leave me yet--doan't thee--doan't thee--doan't thee! Come back, Master Martin;--on my knees I do but of thee:--do come back--for Peggy's zake.” Martin withdrew his hand from the door and returned. “Saul,” said he, as he approached, “I never felt till now, the truth of what you have often told me, namely,--that if I encouraged an affection for your daughter, I should rue it. I _do_ now, most bitterly. Poor--poor Peggy!” “Ah! poor girl!--Come nearer, Master Martin--poor Peggy!” “Now, Saul, I'll hear you for one minute only; and this must--this shall be our last interview--unless--” “Vor one minute, didst say?” exclaimed Saul triumphantly, as he clutched the wrist of Martin in his powerful grasp; “thou shalt hear me vor an hour;--thou sha' not quit me, till thou and I do leave this place, hand-in-hand, together. Ah! thou mayst struggle; but thou knowest the old zaying, 'A Braintree's grip is as zafe as a zmith's vice--if thee wast a horse I'd hold thee.” “Scoundrel! villain!” exclaimed Martin, endeavouring, with all his might, to release himself; “let go your hold, or I'll--” “Ah! do--hit me now, do--now I ha' got the handcuffs on; any child might gi'e Zaul Braintree a zlap o' the face now. Hit me--why doan't 'ee,--wi' your t'other hand? There's no danger o' my drashing'ee vor't Hit me--doan't'ee unclench your vist--here's my head--hit me, Master Martin.” “For heaven's sake, Saul!” exclaimed young Stapleton, “if you ever esteemed me, let me go!--If you do not, I must alarm the house.” “Oh! if you did, Martin!” replied Saul, “you'd ruin us both. I wouldn't have'ee do so, vor the hope I've a' got of living a week over the next zpring assize. If you did 'larm the house, Martin, you'd drop from a young 'zquire into a poacher's zon, and hang your own vather to boot.” “Hang my father!” “Ah! doan't'ee look round the room that vashion:--you be zure there be no one listening?” “Positive!” “Then turn your eyes here, lad:--Meg Braintree was more than your nurse.--She's your own mother!--Now I'll let go thy wrist; for I've got a grip at thy heart. There, thee bee'st vree! Why doesn't go?--I doan't hold thee: go, if thee canst.” “Saul, you surely are not in your senses!”