"Well, an he loves me, I can pardon the presumption of a sturdy rogue."
"You had better do so, then," says he.
"That is, you love me, sir," I demanded, sternly.
"By God I do!" he cries.
"Which is very well," says I, "as, all things considered, sir—well, all things considered, sir—that is, at least, I think it's very well. And as you love me, sir, I would have you steal out through the window of this room, creep across the park into the wood, and I will meet you there in half an hour with money, a disguise, and such like necessaries."
"And my promise to the Captain, madam?"
"The Captain is your enemy," says I. "He seeks to kill you."
He shook his head in defiance of my open anger.
Now here was a point that I never could distinguish. Why, in the first place, the Captain should have dared to trust a desperate rebel upon his simple word, was beyond my understanding; again, why, when his enemy had been fool enough to do so, that rebel did not profit by this credulity was even greater mystery. Of course I have heard soldiers talk about their "honour," and I had lately learnt to know that his "honour" was the one flaw in the complete armour of that worldling, my papa; but for my life I cannot see why a man should extend more consideration to it than he would, as in this present case of young Anthony, to death itself. And certainly I think that there is never a woman of us all that, being put in his tight place, but would
