Peyton staggered back to the settle and sank down on it, exhausted. Elizabeth, hearing black Sam moving about in the dining-room, which was directly north of the hall, bade Molly summon him. When he appeared, she ordered him and Cuff to carry the settle, with the wounded man on it, into the east parlor, and to place the man on the sofa there. She then told Molly to hasten the supper, and to send Williams to her up-stairs, and thereupon rejoined her excited aunt above. When Williams attended her, she gave him commands regarding the prisoner.

Peyton was thus carried through the deep doorway in the south side of the hall into the east parlor, which was now exceedingly habitable with fire roaring and candles lighted. In the east and south sides of this richly ornamented room were deeply embrasured windows, with low seats. In the west side was a mahogany door opening from the old or south hall. In the north side, which was adorned with wooden pillars and other carved woodwork, was 117 the door through which Peyton had been carried; west of that, the decorated chimney-breast with its English mantel and fireplace, and further west a pair of doors opening from a closet, whence a winding staircase descended cellarward. The ceiling was rich with fanciful arabesque woodwork. Set in the chimney-breast, over the mantel, was an oblong mirror. The wainscoting, pillars, and other woodwork were of a creamy white. But Peyton had no eye for details at the moment. He noticed only that his entrance disturbed the slumbers of the old gentleman—Matthias Valentine—who had been sleeping in a great armchair by the fire, and who now blinked in wonderment.

The negroes put down the settle and lifted Peyton to a sofa that stood against the western side of the room, between a spinet and the northern wall. At Peyton’s pantomimic request they then moved the sofa to a place near the fire, and then, taking the settle along, marched out of the room, back to the hall, closing the door as they went.

Peyton, too pain-racked and exhausted to speak, lay back on the sofa, with closed eyes. Old Valentine stared at him a few moments; then, curious both as to this unexpected advent and as to the proximity of supper, rose and hobbled from the parlor and across the hall to the dining-room. For some time Peyton was left alone. He opened his eyes, studied 118 the flying figures on the ceiling, the portraits on the walls, the carpet,—Philipse Manor-house, like the best English houses of the time, had carpet on its floors,—the carving of the mantel, the clock and candelabrum thereupon, the crossed rapiers thereabove, the curves of the imported furniture. His twinges and aches were so many and so diverse that he made no attempt to locate them separately. He could feel that the left leg of his breeches was soaked with blood.

Finally the door opened, and in came Williams and Cuff, the former with shears and bands of linen, the latter with a basin of water. Williams, whom Peyton had not before seen, scrutinized him critically, and forthwith proceeded to expose, examine, wash, and bind up the wounded leg, while Cuff stood by and played the rÔle of surgeon’s assistant. Peyton speedily perceived on the steward’s part a reliable acquaintance with the art of dressing cuts, and therefore submitted without a word to his operations. Williams was equally silent, breaking his reticence only now and then to utter some monosyllabic command to Cuff.

When the wound was dressed, Williams put the patient’s disturbed attire to rights, and adjusted his hair. Peyton, with a feeling of some relief, made to stretch the wounded leg, but a sharp twinge cut the movement short.

“You should make a good surgeon,” Peyton said at last, “you tie so damnably tight a bandage.”

“I’ve bound up many a wound, sir,” said Williams; “and some far worse than yours. ’Tis not a dangerous cut, yours, though ’twill be irritating while it lasts. You won’t walk for a day or two.”

“It’s remarkable your mistress has so much trouble taken with me, when she intends to deliver me to the British.”

Peyton had inferred the steward’s place in the house, from his appearance and manner.

“Why, sir,” said Williams, “we couldn’t have you bleeding over the floor and furniture. Besides, I suppose she wants to hand you over in good condition.”

“I see! No bedraggled remnant of a man, but a complete, clean, and comfortable candidate for Cunningham’s gallows!” Peyton here forgot his wound and attempted to sit upright, but quickly fell back with a grimace and a groan.

“Better lie still, sir,” counselled Williams, sagely. “If you need any one, you are to call Cuff. He will be in waiting in that hall, sir.” And the steward pointed towards the east hall. “There will be no use trying to get away. I doubt if you could walk half across the room without fainting. And if you could get out of the house, you’d find black Sam on guard, with his duck-gun,—and Sam doesn’t miss once in 120 a hundred times with that duck-gun. Bring those things, Cuff.” Williams indicated Peyton’s hat, remnant of sword, and scabbard, which had been placed on the armchair by the fireside.

“Leave my sword!” commanded Peyton.

“Can’t, sir!” said Williams, affably. “Miss Elizabeth’s orders were to take it away.”

Williams thereupon went from the room, crossed the east hall, and entered the dining-room, to report to Elizabeth, who now sat at supper with Miss Sally and Mr. Valentine.

Cuff, with basin of water in one hand, took up the hat, sword, and scabbard, with the other.

“Miss Elizabeth!” mused Peyton. “Queen Elizabeth, I should say, in this house. Gad, to be a girl’s prisoner, tied down to a sofa by so small a cut!” Hereupon he addressed Cuff, who was about to depart: “Where is your mistress?”

“In the dining-room, eating supper.”

“And Mr. Colden, whom I saw in that hall about an hour ago, when I bought the horse?”

“Major Colden rode back to New York.”

“Major Colden! Major of what?”

“New Juzzey Vollingteers, sir.”

“What? Then he is in the King’s service, after all? And when I was here with my troops he said he was neutral. I’ll never take a Tory’s word again.”

“Am you like to hab de chance, sir?” queried Cuff, with a grin.

“What! You taunt me with my situation?” And Harry’s head shot up from the sofa as he made to rise and chastise the boy; but he could not stand on his leg, and so remained sitting, propped on his right arm, panting and glaring at the negro.

Cuff, whose whiteness of teeth had shown in his moment of mirth, now displayed much whiteness of eye in his alarm at Peyton’s movement, and glided to the door. As he went out to the hall, he passed Molly, who was coming into the parlor with a bowl of broth.

“Hah!” ejaculated Peyton as she came towards him. “They would feed the animal for the slaughter, eh?”

Molly curtseyed.

“Please, sir, it wa’n’t they sent this. I brought it of my own accord, sir, though with Miss Elizabeth’s permission.”

“Oh! so Miss Elizabeth did give her permission, then?”

“Yes, sir. At least, she said it didn’t matter, if I wished to.”

“And you did wish to? Well, you’re a good girl, and I thank you.”

Whereupon Peyton took the bowl and sipped of the broth with relish.

“Thank you, sir,” said Molly, who then moved a small light chair from its place by the wall to a spot beside the sofa and within Peyton’s reach. “You can set the bowl on this,” she added. “I must go back to the kitchen.” And, after another curtsey, she was gone.

The broth revived Peyton, and with all his pain and fatigue he had some sense of comfort. The handsome, well warmed, well lighted parlor, so richly furnished, so well protected from the wind and weather by the solid shutters outside its four small-paned windows, was certainly a snug corner of the world. So far seemed all this from stress and war, that Peyton lost his strong realization of the fate that Elizabeth’s threat promised him. Appreciation of his surroundings drove away other thoughts and feelings. That he should be taken and hanged was an idea so remote from his present situation, it seemed rather like a dream than an imminent reality. There surely would be a way of his getting hence in safety. And he imbibed mouthful after mouthful of the warm broth.

Presently old Mr. Valentine reappeared, from the east hall, looking none the less comfortable for the supper he had eaten. A long pipe was in his hand, and, that he might absorb smoke and liquor at the same time, he had brought with him from the table, where the two ladies remained, a vast mug of hot 123 rum punch of Williams’s brewing. He now set the mug on the mantel, lighted his pipe with a brand from the fire, repossessed himself of the mug, and sat down in the armchair, with a sigh of huge satisfaction. It mattered not that this was the parlor of Philipse Manor-house,—for Mr. Valentine, in his innocent way, indulged himself freely in the privileges and presumptions of old age.

Peyton, after staring for some time with curiosity at the smoky old gentleman, who rapidly grew smokier, at last raised the bowl of broth for a last gulp, saying, cheerily:

“To your very good health, sir!”

“Thank you, sir!” said the old man, complacently, not making any movement to reciprocate.

“What! won’t you drink to mine?”

“’Twould be a waste of words to drink the health of a man that’s going to be hanged,” replied Valentine, who at supper had heard the ladies discuss Peyton’s intended fate. He thereupon sent a cloud of smoke ceiling-ward for the flying cherubs to rest on.

“The devil! You are economical!”

“Of words, maybe, not of liquor.” The octogenarian quaffed deeply from the mug. “They say hanging is an easy death,” he went on, being in loquacious mood. “I never saw but one man hanged. He didn’t seem to enjoy it.” Mr. Valentine puffed slowly, inwardly dwelling on the recollection.

“Oh, didn’t he?” said Peyton.

“No, he took it most unpleasant like.”

“Did you come in here to cheer me up in my last hours?” queried Harry, putting the empty bowl on the chair by the sofa.

“No,” replied the other, ingenuously. “I came in for a smoke while the ladies stayed at the table.” He then went back to a subject that seemed to have attractions for him. “I don’t know how hanging will go with you. Cunningham will do the work.[5] They say he makes it as disagreeable as may be. I’d come and see you hanged, but it won’t be possible.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to excuse you,” said Peyton, with resignation.

“Yes.” The old man had finished his punch and set down his mug, and he now yawned with a completeness that revealed vastly more of red toothless mouth than one might have calculated his face could contain. “Some take it easier than others,” he went on. “It’s harder with young men like you.” Again he opened his jaws in a gape as whole-souled as that of a house-dog before a kitchen fire. “It must be disagreeable to have a rope tightened around your neck. I don’t know.” He thrust his pipe-stem absently between his lips, closed his eyes, mumbled absently, “I don’t know,” and in a few moments was asleep, his pipe hanging from his mouth, his hands folded in his lap.

“A cheerful companion for a man in my situation,” thought Peyton. His mind had been brought back to the future. When would this resolute and vengeful Miss Elizabeth fulfil her threat? How would she proceed about it? Had she already taken measures towards his conveyance to the British lines? Should she delay until he should be able to walk, there would be two words about the matter. Meanwhile, he must wait for developments. It was useless to rack his brain with conjectures. His sense of present comfort gradually resumed sway, and he placed his head again on the sofa pillow and closed his eyes.

He was conscious for a time of nothing but his deadened pain, his inward comfort, the breathing of old Mr. Valentine, the intermittent raging of the wind without, and the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel,—which delicately framed timepiece had been started within the hour by Sam, who knew Miss Elizabeth’s will for having all things in running order. Peyton’s drowsiness wrapped him closer and closer. Presently he was remotely aware of the opening of the door, the tread of light feet on the floor, the swish of skirts. But he had now reached that lethargic point which involves total indifference to outer things, and he did not even open his eyes.

“Asleep,” said Elizabeth, for it was she who had entered with her aunt.

Harry recognized the voice, and knew that he was the subject of her remark; but his feeling towards his contemptuous captor was not such as to make him take the trouble of setting her right. Therefore, he kept his eyes closed, having a kind of satisfaction in her being mistaken.

“How handsome!” whispered Miss Sally, who beamed more bigly and benignly after supper than before.

“Which one, aunty?” said Elizabeth, looking from Peyton to old Valentine.

Her aunt deigned to this levity only a look of hopeless reproof.

Elizabeth sat down on the music-seat before the spinet, and became serious,—or, more accurately, businesslike.

“On second thought,” said she, “it won’t do to keep him here waiting for one of our patrols to pass this way. In the meantime some of the rebels might come into the neighborhood and stop here. He must be delivered to the British this very night!”

Peyton gave no outward sign of the momentary heart stoppage he felt within.

“Why,” said the aunt, speaking low, and in some alarm, “’twould require Williams and both the blacks to take him, and we should be left alone in the house.”

“I sha’n’t send him to the troops,” said Elizabeth, 127 in her usual tone, not caring whether or not the prisoner should be disturbed,—for in his powerlessness he could not oppose her plans if he did know them, and in her disdain she had no consideration for his feelings. “The troops shall come for him. Black Sam shall go to the watch-house at King’s Bridge with word that there’s an important rebel prisoner held here, to be had for the taking.”

“Will the troops at King’s Bridge heed the story of a black man?” Aunt Sally seemed desirous of interposing objections to immediate action.

“Their officer will heed a written message from me,” said the niece. “Most of the officers know me, and those at King’s Bridge are aware I came here to-day.”

Thereupon she called in Cuff, and sent him off for Williams, with orders that the steward should bring her pen, ink, paper, and wax.

“Oh, Elizabeth!” cried Miss Sally, looking at the floor. “Here’s some of the poor fellow’s blood on the carpet.”

“Never mind. The blood of an enemy is a sight easily tolerated,” said the girl, probably unaware how nearly she had duplicated a famous utterance of a certain King of France, whose remark had borne reference to another sense than that of sight.[6]

Williams soon came in with the writing materials, and placed them, at Elizabeth’s direction, on a table 128 that stood between the two eastern windows, and on which was a lighted candelabrum. Elizabeth sat down at the table, her back towards the fireplace and Peyton.

“I wish you to send black Sam to me,” said she to the steward, “and to take his place on guard with the gun till he returns from an errand.”

Williams departed, and Elizabeth began to make the quill fly over the paper, her aunt looking on from beside the table. Peyton opened his eyes and looked at them.

“It does seem a pity,” said Miss Sally at last. “Such a pretty gentleman,—such a gallant soldier!”

“Gentleman?” echoed Elizabeth, writing on. “The fellow is not a gentleman! Nor a gallant soldier!”

Peyton rose to a sitting posture as if stung by a hornet, but was instantly reminded of his wound. But neither Elizabeth nor her aunt saw or heard his movement. The girl, unaware that he was awake, continued:

“Does a gentleman or a gallant soldier desert the army of his king to join that of his king’s enemies?”

Quick came the answer,—not from aunt Sally, but from Peyton on the sofa.

“A gallant soldier has the right to choose his side, and a gentleman need not fight against his country!”

Elizabeth did not suffer herself to appear startled at this sudden breaking in. Having finished her note, she quietly folded it, and addressed it, while she said:

“A gallant soldier, having once chosen his side, will be loyal to it; and a gentleman never bore the odious title of deserter.”

“A gentleman can afford to wear any title that is redeemed by a glorious cause and an extraordinary danger. When I took service with the King’s army in England, I never dreamt that army would be sent against the King’s own colonies; and not till I arrived in Boston did I know the true character of this revolt. We thought we were coming over merely to quell a lawless Boston rabble. I gave in my resignation—”

“But did not wait for it to be accepted,” interrupted Elizabeth, quietly, as she applied to the folded paper the wax softened by the flame of a candle.

“I was a little hasty,” said Harry.

“The rebel army was the proper place for such fellows,” said Elizabeth. “No true British officer would be guilty of such a deed!”

“Probably not! It required exceptional courage!”

Peyton knew, as well as any, that the British were brave enough; but he was in mood for sharp retort.

“That is not the reason,” said Elizabeth, coldly, 130 refusing to show wrath. “Your enemies hold such acts as yours in detestation.”

“I am not serving in this war for the approbation of my enemies.”

At this moment black Sam came in. Elizabeth handed him the letter, and said:

“You are to take my horse Cato, and ride with this message to the British barrier at King’s Bridge. It is for the officer in command there. When the sentries challenge you, show this, and say it is of the greatest consequence and must be delivered at once.”

“Yes, Miss Elizabeth.”

“The commander,” she went on, “will probably send here a body of troops at once, to convey this prisoner within the lines. You are to return with them. If no time is lost, and they send mounted troops, you should be back in an hour.”

Peyton could hardly repress a start.

“An hour at most, miss, if nothing stops,” said the negro.

“If any officer of my acquaintance is in command,” said Elizabeth, “there will be no delay. Cuff shall let the troops in, through that hall, as soon as they arrive.”

Whereupon the black man, a stalwart and courageous specimen of his race, went rapidly from the room.

“One hour!” murmured Peyton, looking at the clock.

Molly, the maid, now reappeared, carrying carefully in one hand a cup, from which a thin steam ascended.

“What is’t now, Molly?” inquired Elizabeth, rising from her chair.

Molly blushed and was much confused. “Tea, ma’am, if you please! I thought, maybe, you’d allow the gentleman—”

“Very well,” said Elizabeth. “Be the good Samaritan if you like, child. His tea-drinking days will soon be over. Come, aunt Sally, we shall be in better company elsewhere.” And she returned to the dining-room, not deigning her prisoner another look.

Miss Sally followed, but her feelings required confiding in some one, and before she went she whispered to the embarrassed maid, “Oh, Molly, to think so sweet a young gentleman should be completely wasted!”

Molly heaved a sigh, and then approached the young gentleman himself, with whom she was now alone, saving the presence of the slumbering Valentine.

“So your name is Molly? And you’ve brought me tea this time?”

“Yes, sir,—if you please, sir.” She took up the bowl from the chair and placed the cup in its stead. “I put sugar in this, sir, but if you’d rather—”

“I’d rather have it just as you’ve made it, Molly,” 132 he said, in a singularly gentle, unsteady tone. He raised the cup, and sipped. “Delicious, Molly!—Hah! Your mistress thinks my tea-drinking days will soon be over.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

“So am I.” He held the cup in his left hand, supporting his upright body with his right arm, and looked rather at vacancy than at the maid. “Never to drink tea again,” he said, “or wine or spirits, for that matter! To close your eyes on this fine world! Never again to ride after the hounds, or sing, or laugh, or chuck a pretty girl under the chin!”

And here, having set down the cup, he chucked Molly herself under the chin, pretending a gaiety he did not feel.

“Never again,” he went on, “to lead a charge against the enemies of our liberty; not to live to see this fight out, the King’s regiments driven from the land, the States take their place among the free nations of the world! By God, Molly, I don’t want to die yet!”

It was not the fear of death, it was the love of life, and what life might have in reserve, that moved him; and it now asserted itself in him with a force tenfold greater than ever before. Death,—or, rather, the ceasing of life,—as he viewed it now, when he was like to meet it without company, with prescribed preliminaries, in an ignominious mode, was a far 133 other thing than as viewed in the exaltation of battle, when a man chances it hot-headed, uplifted, thrilled, in gallant comradeship, to his own fate rendered careless by a sense of his nothingness in comparison with the whole vast drama. Moreover, in going blithely to possible death in open fight, one accomplishes something for his cause; not so, going unwillingly to certain death on an enemy’s gallows. It was, too, an exasperating thought that he should die to gratify the vengeful whim of an insolent Tory girl.

“Will it really come to that?” asked Molly, in a frightened tone.

“As surely as I fall into British hands!”

Peyton remembered the case of General Charles Lee, whose resignation of half-pay had not been acknowledged; who was, when captured by the British, long in danger of hanging, and who was finally rated as an ordinary war prisoner only for Washington’s threat to retaliate on five Hessian field officers. If a major-general, whose desertion, even if admitted, was from half-pay only, would have been hanged without ceremony but for General Howe’s fear of a “law scrape,” and had been saved from shipment to England for trial, only by the King’s fear that Washington’s retaliation would disaffect the Hessian allies, for what could a mere captain look, who had come over from the enemy in action, and whose punishment would entail no official retaliation?

“And your mistress expects a troop of British soldiers here in an hour to take me! Damn it, if I could only walk!” And he looked rapidly around the room, in a kind of distraction, as if seeking some means of escape. Realizing the futility of this, he sighed dismally, and drank the remainder of the tea.

“You couldn’t get away from the house, sir,” said Molly. “Williams is watching outside.”

“I’d take a chance if I could only run!” Peyton muttered. He had no fear that Molly would betray him. “If there were some hiding-place I might crawl to! But the troops would search every cranny about the house.” He turned to Molly suddenly, seeing, in his desperate state and his lack of time, but one hope. “I wonder, could Williams be bribed to spirit me away?”

Molly’s manner underwent a slight chill.

“Oh, no,” said she. “He’d die before he’d disobey Miss Elizabeth. We all would, sir. I’m very sorry, indeed, sir.” Whereupon, taking up the empty bowl and teacup, she hastened from the room.

Peyton sat listening to the clock-ticks. He moved his right leg so that the foot rested on the floor, then tried to move the left one after it, using his hand to guide it. With great pains and greater pain, he finally got the left foot beside the right. He then undertook to stand, but the effort cost him such 135 physical agony as could not be borne for any length of time. He fell back with a groan to the sofa, convinced that the wounded leg was not only, for the time, useless itself, but also an impediment to whatever service the other leg might have rendered alone. But he remained sitting up, his right foot on the floor.

Suddenly there was a raucous sound from old Mr. Valentine. He had at last begun to snore. But this infliction brought its own remedy, for when his jaws opened wider his tobacco pipe fell from his mouth and struck his folded hands. He awoke with a start, and blinked wonderingly at Peyton, whose face, turned towards the old man, still wore the look of disapproval evoked by the momentary snoring.

“Still here, eh?” piped Mr. Valentine. “I dreamt you were being hanged to the fireplace, like a pig to be smoked. I was quite upset over it! Such a fine young gentleman, and one of Harry Lee’s officers, too!”

And the old man shook his head deploringly.

“Then why don’t you help me out of this?” demanded Peyton, whose impulse was for grasping at straws, for he thought of black Sam urging Cato through the wind towards King’s Bridge at a gallop.

“It ain’t possible,” said Valentine, phlegmatically.

“If it were, would you?” asked Harry, a spark of 136 hope igniting from the appearance that the old man was, at least, not antagonistic to him.

“Why, yes,” began the octogenarian, placidly.

Harry’s heart bounded.

“If,” the old man went on, “I could without lending aid to the King’s enemies. But you see I couldn’t. I won’t lend aid to neither side’s enemies.[7] I don’t want to die afore my time.” And he gazed complacently at the fire.

Peyton knew the hopeless immovability of selfish old age.

“God!” he muttered, in despair. “Is there no one I can turn to?”

“There’s none within hearing would dare go against the orders of Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Valentine.

“Miss Elizabeth evidently rules with a firm hand,” said Peyton, bitterly. “Her word—” He stopped suddenly, as if struck by a new thought. “If I could but move her! If I could make her change her mind!”

“You couldn’t. No one ever could, and as for a rebel soldier—”

“She has a heart of iron, that girl!” broke in Peyton. “The cruelty of a savage!”

Mr. Valentine took on a sincerely deprecating look. “Oh, you mustn’t abuse Miss Elizabeth,” said he. “It ain’t cruelty, it’s only proper pride. 137 And she isn’t hard. She has the kindest heart,—to those she’s fond of.”

“To those she’s fond of,” repeated Harry, mechanically.

“Yes,” said the old man; “her people, her horses, her dogs and cats, and even her servants and slaves.”

“Tender creature, who has a heart for a dog and not for a man!”

The old man’s loyalty to three generations of Philipses made him a stubborn defender, and he answered:

“She’d have no less a heart for a man if she loved him.”

“If she loved him!” echoed Peyton, and began to think.

“Ay, and a thousand times more heart, loving him as a woman loves a man.” Mr. Valentine spoke knowingly, as one acquainted by enviable experience with the measure of such love.

“As a woman loves a man!” repeated Peyton. Suddenly he turned to Valentine. “Tell me, does she love any man so, now?” Peyton did not know the relation in which Elizabeth and Major Colden stood to each other.

“I can’t say she loves one,” replied Valentine, judicially, “though—”

But Peyton had heard enough.

“By heaven, I’ll try it!” he cried. “Such 138 miracles have happened! And I have almost an hour!”

Old Valentine blinked at him, with stupid lack of perception. “What is it, sir?”

“I shall try it!” was Peyton’s unenlightening answer. “There’s one chance. And you can help me!”

“The devil I can!” replied Valentine, rising from his chair in some annoyance. “I won’t lend aid, I tell you!”

“It won’t be ‘lending aid.’ All I beg is that you ask Miss Elizabeth to see me alone at once,—and that you’ll forget all I’ve said to you. Don’t stand staring! For Christ’s sake, go and ask her to come in! Don’t you know? Only an hour,—less than that, now!”

“But she mayn’t come here for the asking,” objected the old man, somewhat dazed by Peyton’s petulance.

“She must come here!” cried Harry. “Induce her, beg her, entice her! Tell her I have a last request to make of my jailer,—no, excite her curiosity; tell her I have a confession to make, a plot to disclose,—anything! In heaven’s name, go and send her here!”

It was easier to comply with so light a request than to remain recipient of such torrent-like importunity. “I’ll try, sir,” said the peace-loving old 139 man, “but I have no hope,” and he hobbled from the room. He left the door open as he went, and Harry, tortured by impatience, heard him shuffling over the hall floor to the dining-room.

Peyton’s mind was in a whirl. He glanced at the clock. These were his thoughts:

“Fifty minutes! To make a woman love me! A proud woman, vain and wilful, who hates our cause, who detests me! To make her love me! How shall I begin? Keep your wits now, Harry, my son,—’tis for your life! How to begin? Why doesn’t she come? Damn the clock, how loud it ticks! I feel each tick. No, ’tis my heart I feel. My God, will she not come? And the time is going—”

“Well, sir, what is it?”

He looked from the clock to the doorway, where stood Elizabeth.