“Agreed, my friend,” returned the ruffian, smiling complacently, though not in the least ruffled at Robert’s ravings and revilings. “I do not profess to be at all saintly you know; but I do assure you that I am very fond of money, and so have made up my mind to see this thing through.” “Money!” repeated Robert, bitterly. “Sell your soul for a few paltry dollars, and wreck the happiness of two loving, trusting hearts.” After a few moments spent in troubled thought, while he paced to and fro, Robert suddenly halted and said: “Weilman Weichel, I will pledge you a hundred thousand dollars if you will set me free—nay, do not refuse until you hear my story!” He then related the history of his whole life, up to the present time, and ended by showing the chief the note he had received from Dora the day before. The chief appeared to be convinced of the truth of the story, and started violently when Robert spoke the name of Squire Moulton. He hesitated a long time before he replied. He evidently coveted the great sum that Robert offered him, but he finally replied in a cold, hard tone: “I told you before, young man, that my word was pledged, and that no amount of money could tempt me to break it.” The chieftain withdrew, and Robert was left alone. In a few moments a page appeared. He conducted the unhappy young man to the chamber allotted to his use. Robert threw himself upon the couch, and utterly exhausted with his passionate emotions, fell into a sound slumber, which lasted many hours. CHAPTER XIV. DORA’S GRIEF. Madame Alroyd and Dora, on leaving the institute, drove rapidly back to the Glenburn House, where they had an elegant suite of rooms. Madam was in ecstasies over the young orator—the more so, because he was one of her own countrymen, and had borne off the palm in the face of all the natives. She kept up an incessant chattering during the drive, extolling his eloquence, praising his manly beauty and elegant manners, and ended by declaring that they must manage some way to get acquainted with him. Dora, on the contrary, sat silent and sad, scarcely heeding her aunt’s many expressions of delight. She was wounded to her heart’s core that Robert had not given her a smile of recognition, nor even a glance of his eye, to show that he was glad she had been present to witness his triumph. His pale, cold look haunted her. Perhaps he thought her unmaidenly—wanting in womanly delicacy, to thus force herself unasked upon his presence and notice; and her delicate cheek burned with shame and mortification as the thought presented itself to her.