ove you with all the intensity that a human
heart is capable of loving; but it is hopeless now."

"Why?"

"You have promised to marry another man."

"What do you know of this?"

Both of us were very excited. We were moved to talk in an unconventional
strain.

"Mr. Temple told me of your interview together last night."

A slight flush came to her face. "But Mr. Temple has told you the
condition of the promise as well," she said.

"Yes; but that condition makes me hopeless."

"What!" she cried. "But no, I will not entertain such a thought. You are
as innocent as I am."

"Yes, I am innocent in thought, in intent, and in heart; but as for the
deed itself, I know not."

"I do not understand you," she said; "you speak in words that convey no
meaning to my mind. Will you explain?"

"I cannot, Miss Forrest. I would give all I possess if I could. I have
nothing that I would keep secret from you, and yet I cannot tell you
that which you would know."

Did she understand me? Did her quick mind guess my condition? I could
not tell, and yet a strange look of intelligence flashed from her eyes.

"Mr. Blake," she said, "my soul loathes the thought of marrying that
man. If ever my promise has to be fulfilled, I shall die the very day on
which he calls me wife."

My heart gave a great throb of joy; her every word gave me hope in spite
of myself.

"Mr. Blake," she continued, "I never must marry him."

"God grant you may not," I said.

"I must not," she said, "and you must keep me from danger."

"I, Miss Forrest! I would give the world if I could: but how can I? You
do not know the terrible slavery that binds me, neither can I tell you."

"I shall trust in you to deliver me from this man," she went on without
heeding me. "You must prove yourself to be innocent."

"To do that I must bring this man Kaffar. I know nothing of him. I could
never find him. Oh, I tell you, Miss Forrest, a thousand evil powers
seem to rend me when I attempt to do what I long for."

"I shall trust in you," she cried. "Surely you are sufficiently
interested in me to save me from a man like Voltaire?"

"Interested?" I cried. "I would die for you, I love you so. And yet I
can do nothing."

"You can do something; you can do everything. You can save me from him."

"Oh," I cried, "I know I must appear a pitiful coward to you. It is for
me you have placed yourself in this position, while I refuse to try to
liberate you from it. If I only cou