"
She looked up, startled, yet governing herself, and her hand
sought mine and nestled there. "I feel that, too," she replied.
"What is it, Robert?"
"I can not in honour escape from your father's house. I can not
steal his daughter and his safety too--"
"You must escape," she interrupted firmly.
"From here, from the citadel, from anywhere but your house; and
so I will not go to it."
"You will not go to it?" she repeated slowly and strangely. "How
may you not? You are a prisoner. If they make my father your
jailer--" She laughed.
"I owe that jailer and that jailer's daughter--"
"You owe them your safety and your freedom. Oh, Robert, I know,
I know what you mean. But what care I what the world may think
by-and-bye, or to-morrow, or to-day? My conscience is clear."
"Your father--" I persisted.
She nodded. "Yes, yes, you speak truth, alas! And yet you must
be freed. And"--here she got to her feet, and with flashing eyes
spoke out--"and you shall be set free. Let come what will, I owe
my first duty to you, though all the world chatter; and I will
not stir from that.
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