if I could but have a little blood on my shoon,
the dogs would follow me instead, and let my Gerard wend free. So I
scratched my arm with Martin's knife--forgive me! Whose else could I
take? Yours, Gerard? Ah, no. You forgive me?" said she beseechingly, and
lovingly and fawningly, all in one.

"Let me see this scratch first," said Gerard, choking with emotion.
"There, I thought so. A scratch? I call it a cut--a deep, terrible,
cruel cut."

Gerard shuddered at sight of it.

"She might have done it with her bodkin," said the soldier. "Milksop!
that sickens at sight of a scratch and a little blood."

"No, no. I could look on a sea of blood, but not on hers. Oh, Margaret!
how could you be so cruel?"

Margaret smiled with love ineffable. "Foolish Gerard," murmured she, "to
make so much of nothing." And she flung the guilty arm round his neck.
"As if I would not give all the blood in my heart for you, let alone
a few drops from my arm." And with this, under the sense of his recent
danger, she wept on his neck for pity and love; and he wept with her.

"And I must part from her," he sobbed; "we two that love so dear--one
must be in Holland, one in Italy. Ah me! ah me! ah me!"

At this Margaret wept afresh, but patiently and silently. Instinct is
never off its guard, and with her unselfishness was an instinct.
To utter her present thoughts would be to add to Gerard's misery at
parting, so she wept in silence.

Suddenly they emerged upon a beaten path, and Martin stopped.

"This is the bridle-road I spoke of," said he hanging his head; "and
there away lies the hostelry."

Margaret and Gerard cast a scared look at one another.

"Come a step with me, Martin," whispered Gerard. When he had drawn him
aside, he said to him in a broken voice, "Good Martin, watch over her
for me! She is my wife; yet I leave her. See Martin! here is gold--it
was for my journey; it is no use my asking her to take it--she would
not; but you will for her, will you not? Oh, Heaven! and is this all I
can do for her? Money? But poverty is a curse. You will not let her want
for anything, dear Martin? The burgomaster's silver is enough for me."

"Thou art a good lad, Gerard. Neither want nor harm shall come to her.
I care more for her little finger than for all the world; and were she
nought to me, even for thy sake would I be a father to her. Go with
a stout heart, and God be with thee going and coming." And the rough
soldier wrung Gerard's hand,