The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. \"But you are so beautiful. . In vain Wood protested his innocence.
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