“Could you but know how persecuted a man I am, mistress,” said he, “you would feel grief for my poor cause. Alackaday, alackaday! that I should have such an enemy.” “Who might your enemy be, good sir?” asked the little maid. “You would not know him,” he answered. “In England he dwells,—a man of portly presence, with a dash, a swagger, a twirl of his sword. A man given o’er to dress.” Now, in thinking he could surprise Deliverance into admitting that the fine gentleman she had met that eventful day in the forest was a man of such description, he was mistaken, for the little maid had been taught to keep a close mouth. “Perchance, I had best tell you my sad tale,” continued Sir Jonathan. “I was obliged to flee England, lest mine enemy poison me. Spite of his open air and swagger, he was a snake in the grass, forever ready to strike at my heel, to sting me covertly in darkness. An honest man knows no defence against such a villain. Why look you so at me? I harbour no malice against you.” “But why, good sir,” said she, “and ye bore me no malice, did ye tell the reverend judges that I had muttered an imprecation, and cast a spell on ye?” “How did you know the words you spoke, words which filled me with bitterness and pain, unless you have a familiar spirit?” he asked. “No familiar spirit have I,” answered Deliverance, pitifully. “I be no witch to mutter unco words.” “I know not, I know not,” said Sir Jonathan, shrugging his shoulders; “but I shall believe you a witch and you be unable to explain those words.” “Oh, lack-a-mercy-me!” said Deliverance. “Oh, lack-a-mercy-me, whatever shall I do!” And she lifted her petticoat, and wiped her eyes and sighed most drearily. Sir Jonathan sighed also in a still more dreary fashion. “This be fair awful,” said Deliverance. “I ken not which to believe, ye or the gentleman in the forest.” “What said he?” asked Sir Jonathan, eagerly. “Nay, good sir,” protested Deliverance, “I must have time to think.” Even as she spoke, she recalled the stranger’s smile, the love-light in his eyes as he showed her the miniature of his sweetest daughter. All doubt that he had deceived her was swallowed up in a wave of keenest conviction that only an honest gentleman could so sincerely love his daughter,—even as her father loved her. And all the former distrust and resentment she had entertained toward Sir Jonathan came back with renewed force. “I will not tell ye,” she said. “Have I not given my good and loyal word? Nay, good sir, I will not tell ye.” “There are ways to make stubborn tongues speak,” he threatened. Deliverance pursed up her mouth obstinately, and looked away from him. Sir Jonathan pondered long. “There are ways,” he muttered. “Nay, I would not be ungentle. We’ll strike a goodly bargain. Come now, my pretty mistress, tell me the secret the stranger telled you. It has brought you naught but grief. I promise, and you do, that you shall not be hanged. How like you that?”