"Nay, nay, I cannot."

"What! Will you stay to be this man's wife?"

"No! Sooner death," she cried. "He may not return."

"He is on his way."

"Oh, no, no," she whispered, shuddering. "I could not be his wife. He may not come--a thousand things may happen. Oh, Gil, Gil, do not tempt me to do wrong."

"Nay, nay, I'll not tempt thee, sweet. 'Tis no temptation to say, 'Be my wife.' Is it so sad a fate?"

"Gil--husband--thy wife or death's!" she sobbed, as she passionately kissed his sunburned face.

"Then you will come, sweet!" he cried. "Quick, thy cloak and hood."

"Nay, Gil, dearest Gil, I cannot leave."

"Mace!"

"Do not reproach me," she said, sadly. "Gil, dear Gil, I love thee with all my heart, but I could not flee from here while hope remained."

"And does it remain here?" he said, bitterly.

"Yes, dearest," she whispered. "My father may repent; Sir Mark may never return. While there is either of those to cling to, I could not go."

"But, if they were gone, would you come? Tell me quickly."

There was a dead silence, during which the chirp, as of a bird, was once more heard.

"There is something wrong, sweet, and I must go; but tell me, were both those hopes gone, would you come?"

Again there was silence, and then once more the chirp of the bird.

"Gil," whispered Mace, with her lips to his ear, "I cannot leave my father while there is hope. If this fails me, on the eve of my wedding-day, come, and I will flee with thee to the great world's end."

"Seal it," he whispered. "Gil!"

"Seal thy promise, sweet," he whispered. "My arms fail me; I cannot draw thee to my breast. Kiss me, sweet wife, for my wife thou art."

Her lips slowly lowered themselves to his, rested there for long, and then were raised, as a thrill of joy shot through the young man's breast.

"On the eve of the day appointed for the wedding, then, I will be here, to take thee away. Father Brisdone shall be on board my ship, the boat lie waiting, and there shall be good men and true to protect thee, love.

You will not fail?"

"I will not fail," she whispered.

"There goes one hope," he said, as lights shone through the trees on the track beside the Pool. "Sir Mark has come."

Mace uttered a faint cry.

"Nay, love, that should be a cry of joy," he whispered. "I go hence happy, for the prize is mine."

Her arms relaxed, and he dropped from the window, and stole cautiously away; but on every hand he found that some one was on the watch, and that Sir Mark's people, who were more able than he had expected, were at every turn.

They had not seen him come, but partly from suspicion, partly because they half expected that the announcement of Sir Mark's return upon the following night might be merely a ruse to throw them off their guard, they were particularly watchful; and, as they had anticipated, so it happened, for there was their leader at the gate.

A few blows and a struggle, and Gil could easily have escaped, but that would have interfered with his plans; and hence he was doubly cautious, the result being that just as the horsemen bearing lights reached the house, Gil had crept back and crouched beneath his mistress's window, unable to get unseen away.

"Gil," she whispered.

"I am here, sweet. They will see me if you stay. Go in, and close thy casement."

"Nay, nay," she whispered, agitatedly. "You will be taken--there will be blood shed. Come--quick--in here till they are gone."

With a bound Gil reached the heavy window-sill, and drew himself up, got one arm over, then with a slight struggle he was half in, then leaped lightly down, and caught Mace to his panting breast.

"Hush! for heaven's sake, hush!" she whispered as she clung to him, "you might be heard."

"And if I were," he said fondly, "I should have blurred my darling's fame. Mace, sweet wife, that I love thee thou shalt have no doubt.

Heaven bless thee, child. Good night."

Before she could speak he had placed one foot on the sill and leaped out on to the grass, coming down so lightly that as she darted to the window she hardly heard his footfalls. There was a slight rustle though on her left, which must have been he; and then as she drew back there was the sound of low voices talking, and she became aware that they were those of her father and Sir Mark.

She shrank away from the window with a shiver, for the voice of Sir Mark sounded hateful to her; but fear lest her lover should be heard drew her back, and she stood listening, but heard no sound to cause her dread.

Once more there was the chirp as of a bird, and then came an answering chirp as from off the water, after which all was silent, and she closed her window to sit down and wonder how Gil had produced those tiny sparks of light, and then she knelt down and laid her cheek against her bed as she prayed with all her heart for forgiveness if she were wrong in feeling so joyous--so glad of soul that her lover had returned.

For there was a delicious sense of ecstasy--of freedom from all pain-- pervading her. She was safe from Sir Mark and his machinations. He might take away Master Peasegood and Father Brisdone, but Gil he dared not touch; and she closed her eyes and sighed content as she thought of her stout, brave lover--so strong, so manly, and so true.

Was it the same life, she asked herself, that she was living a few hours ago? It seemed impossible; and she rose at length so refreshed and calm that she was ready enough to answer when there was a step on the stairs, and her father's voice speaking.

"Art abed, lass?" he cried.

"No, father."

"Then come down. Sir Mark would see thee and show thee the presents he has brought from London town."

Mace hesitated for a few moments, and, had it been the night before, she would have refused to go. This night she felt so at peace within herself that she was ready enough, and went down to read in the eyes of both that they were ignorant of Gil's return, though she repented afterwards, and felt that she was playing a double part, as she listened to Sir Mark's adulation, and saw the rich presents he had purchased for his bride.

It was while she was listening to his words that she suddenly recollected the necklace of pearls which she had scattered about the room where they were seated, and wondered where they had gone, for she had thought of them no more.

At last, at a very late hour for the simple country-place, she was able to retire, and when she did, and received her father's customary kiss, the words he uttered we're few but they shot through her like a pang.

For they were words of thanks for her less reserved demeanour towards Sir Mark; and, as the poor girl ascended once more to her room, it was with the feeling strong upon her that the second hope to which she had clung had just been swept away.

Volume 2, Chapter XVIII.

HOW TOM CROFTLY SPOKE HIS MIND.