h her for being false--for she never wrote to me. And,
oh, the dear angel! what she must have suffered!--I gave my uncle the
slip, and got to the railway she was coming by. There was a fellow going
to meet her--a farmer's son--and, good God! they were going to try and
make her marry him! I remembered it all then. A servant of the farm had
told me. That fellow went to the wrong station, I suppose, for we saw
nothing of him. There she was--not changed a bit!--looking lovelier than
ever! And when she saw me, I knew in a minute that she must love me
till death!--You don't know what it is yet, Rip!--Will you believe,
it?--Though I was as sure she loved me and had been true as steel, as
that I shall see her to-night, I spoke bitterly to her. And she bore it
meekly--she looked like a saint. I told her there was but one hope of
life for me--she must prove she was true, and as I give up all, so must
she. I don't know what I said. The thought of losing her made me mad.
She tried to plead with me to wait--it was for my sake, I know. I
pretended, like a miserable hypocrite, that she did not love me at all.
I think I said shameful things. Oh what noble creatures women are! She
hardly had strength to move. I took her to that place where you found
us, Rip! she went down on her knees to me, I never dreamed of anything
in life so lovely as she looked then. Her eyes were thrown up, bright
with a crowd of tears--her dark brows bent together, like Pain and
Beauty meeting in one; and her glorious golden hair swept off her
shoulders as she hung forward to my hands.--Could I lose such a
prize.--If anything could have persuaded me, would not that?--I thought
of Dante's Madonna--Guido's Magdalen.--Is there sin in it? I see none!
And if there is, it's all mine! I swear she's spotless of a thought of
sin. I see her very soul? Cease to love her? Who dares ask me? Cease to
love her? Why, I live on her!--To see her little chin straining up from
her throat, as she knelt to me!--there was one curl that fell across her
throat"....

Ripton listened for more. Richard had gone off in a muse at the picture.

"Well?" said Ripton, "and how about that young farmer fellow?"

The hero's head was again contemplating the starry branches. His
lieutenant's question came to him after an interval.

"Young Tom? Why, it's young Torn Blaize--son of our old enemy, Rip! I
like the old man now. Oh! I saw nothing of the fellow."

"Lord!" cried Ripton, "are we going to g