might divulge John's name, caught her in my arms and detained
her by force. She turned upon me savagely and struck me in her effort to
escape. She called me traitor, villain, dog, but I lifted her in my arms
and carried her struggling to her bedroom. I wanted to tell her of the
plans which Dawson and I had made, but I feared to do so, lest she might
in some way betray them, so I left her in the room with Lady Crawford and
Madge. I told Lady Crawford to detain Dorothy at all hazards, and I
whispered to Madge asking her to tell Dorothy that I would look to John's
comfort and safety. I then hastily followed Sir George, Dawson, and Welch,
and in a few moments I saw them leave John, bleeding and senseless, upon
the dungeon floor. When Sir George's back was turned, Dawson by my orders
brought the surgeon from the stable where he had been working with the
horses. The surgeon bound up the wound in John's head and told me, to my
great joy, that it was not fatal. Then he administered a reviving potion
and soon consciousness returned. I whispered to John that Dawson and I
would not forsake him, and, fearing discovery by Sir George, hurriedly
left the dungeon.

I believe there is a certain amount of grief and sorrow which comes with
every great joy to give it a cost mark whereby we may always know its
value. The love between Dorothy and John indeed was marked in plain
figures of high denominations.

CHAPTER XII

THE LEICESTER POSSIBILITY

On Leaving the dungeon I sought Madge, and after I had whispered a word to
her from my heart I asked her to tell Dorothy the encouraging words of the
surgeon, and also to tell her that she should not be angry with me until
she was sure she had good cause. I dared not send a more explicit message,
and I dared not go to Dorothy, for Sir George was in a suspicious mood and
I feared ruin not only for myself but for John, should my violent cousin
suspect me of sympathy with his daughter and her lover.

I also sought Aunt Dorothy and whispered a word to her of which you shall
hear more presently.

"Ah, I cannot do it," cried the trembling old lady in response to my
whispered request. "I cannot do it."

"But you must, Aunt Dorothy," I responded. "Upon it depend three lives:
Sir George's, Dorothy's, and her lover's. You must do it."

"I will try," she replied.

"That assurance will not suit me," I responded. "You must promise upon
your salvation that you will not fail me."

"I promise