The conversation just related took place in a passage where the two men kept watch outside the room in which Everell was temporarily confined. It was a small chamber with an iron-barred window, and the Jacobite sat gazing into the flame of a candle on the mantelpiece, while his fate was being discussed in the drawing-room. He was still under the restraint of the cords, which, like that of lock and key, was warranted by his persistent refusal to give his word that he would not escape. The master of the house had personally seen, however, that the prisoner’s surroundings were made as endurable as the necessities of the case allowed.

“So this,” said Foxwell, as he then rejoined his guests in the drawing-room, “is what lay behind our Georgiana’s prudery. How the deuce could she have met the Jacobite?”

“The question is,” said Rashleigh, “what the deuce are you going to do with the Jacobite?”

“I wish I knew,” replied Foxwell, looking at the document presented to him by Jeremiah Filson. “’Tis clear enough what our duty is, as loyal subjects, and so forth.”

“’Twere a pity such a lovable fellow should be thrown to the hangman,” said Mrs. Winter.

“A thousand pities,” said Lady Strange. “And so loving a fellow, too! If ever a man had a true lover’s look!—well, to be sure, the little Georgiana is a pretty thing, but—”

“But the young blade might look higher if he had better taste—is that what you were thinking, Diana?” asked Mrs. Winter, with ironical artlessness.

“No such thing, neither!” said Lady Strange, indignantly. “I admire him for his constancy—for I warrant he is constant to her, and will be constant to her; and I wouldn’t have him else, not for the world. Thank Heaven, I am above envy.”

A slight emphasis upon the I—so slight as scarce to seem intended—was perhaps what drew from the other lady the answer:

“Don’t be too sure of the young fellow’s constancy. You know, Diana dear, you always have been somewhat credulous of men’s constancy—’tis your own fidelity makes you trustful, of course.”

“Doubt as much as you like, Isabella: we are all aware you have particular reasons to complain of men’s fickleness.”

Feeling that the preservation of the peace required an immediate diversion, Rashleigh broke in with the first remark that occurred to him as appropriate:

“Certainly this young man is a lover who has risked his life for the sake of love.”

“Ay, and that proves you and I were right at dinner, Cousin Rashleigh!” cried Lady Strange.

“Hardly so, my lady,” said Foxwell. “This young gentleman merely risked his life in coming to meet his beloved. He by no means counted surely upon losing it: his active endeavours to escape prove that. Mrs. Winter’s contention, which I supported, was that no man would deliberately give his life for the sake of love—by which I mean the passion of love, itself, apart from pity or duty or other consideration. Now, had this gentleman come to meet his beloved, knowing certainly that death awaited him in consequence, then indeed he would have proved your assertion.”

“Well, and how do you know he wouldn’t have done so, if the circumstances had required?” asked Lady Strange. “For my part, I believe he would.”

“Provided, of course,” added Rashleigh, “that by failing to meet her he might lose her for all time.”

“That is implied, certainly,” said Foxwell. “The alternative we are imagining is: Death for love gratified—life for love renounced.”

“Catch a fellow of his years and looks choosing death on any such terms, if the choice were offered him,” said Mrs. Winter, derisively.

“’Tis precisely his youth that would make him give all for love,” said Rashleigh; “the more so if this be his first serious love.—But what is to be his fate, Bob? If you hand him over to the authorities, he will certainly be hanged, unless that paper lies.”

“Egad, I was just thinking,” replied Foxwell, with the faint smile that comes with a piquant idea; “an Italian duke, a century or two ago, would have amused his visitors, and settled the point of our dispute, by putting this young gentleman to the test. I must say, experiments upon the human passions have an interest, though the loggish minds of our countrymen don’t often rise to such refinements of curiosity.”

“I see nothing in it to balk at,” said Rashleigh. “At the worst, the young man can but die, as he must if you do your plain duty as a loyal subject. ’Twould really be giving him a chance for his life. It seems an excellent way out of your own indecision as to what you should do with him: you transfer his fate from your will to his.”

“I believe he does love the girl,” said Foxwell, revolving the notion in his mind. “And certainly his life is in my power—we may let him go if we choose, and the government be none the wiser, or we may dutifully hand him over to the law. We can offer him, on the one hand, his life and freedom if he will give up his love upon the instant and for ever, not to set eyes upon the girl again: on the other hand, a brief period of grace, which he may pass with her on the footing of a favoured suitor, on condition of handing him over to the authorities at the end.”

“And if he decline to choose?” asked Rashleigh.

“Then I can send word straightway to Jeremiah Filson to fetch the officers. In that event, young Troilus will lose both life and love. Either choice will be a gain upon that.—But you may save your pity, Lady Strange: he will choose to live and go free, depend on it.”

“I will not depend on it. He will obey the dictates of his love, and choose death rather than never see her again.”

“Indeed, I shall not be surprised if he does so,” said Rashleigh. “You take too little account of his youth, Bob. When men are of his age, and of an ardent nature, their love shuts out everything else from their view. ’Tis their universe. Beyond it, or apart from it, there’s nothing.”

“Fudge and nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Winter. “He will prefer to run away and live to love another day.”

“We shall see,” cried Lady Strange, “if Bob will really put it to the test. I’m so sure of the man, I’ll lay five guineas he will choose love and death.”

“Well, my lady, I’ll take your wager,” said Foxwell. “Your five guineas will be a cheap price for the lesson, that we men are not such devoted creatures as you do us the honour to suppose.”

“Never fear my doing you that honour, Foxwell. But thank you for taking the wager. I’m dying of curiosity to see how the young fellow will receive the proposal.”

“There is no need you should linger in suspense,” replied Foxwell, pulling the bell. “Let us have the matter out now, while we’re in the humour.”

Taking up his sword, for use only in case of some desperate attempt on the prisoner’s part, Foxwell stationed himself at the door of the room, whence he could see across the hall and up the passage to the place of confinement. He then sent Caleb to request, in terms of great politeness, Mr. Everell’s company in the drawing-room, whither he was to be attended, of course, by the two men now guarding him.

While Caleb was upon this errand, it was possible for Foxwell both to keep eyes on the passage and to talk with his friends.

“Will you bet five guineas against me, too, Bob?” asked Rashleigh.

“Nay, I’ll do that,” put in Mrs. Winter, quickly, “and five more, if you like.”

“Done—ten guineas,” said Rashleigh.

“Good!” cried Mrs. Winter. “I believe I know how far a man is capable of going for love’s sake—even when young and of an ardent nature.”

“For all your talk,” answered Rashleigh, with barefaced affability, “you’ll not make me believe you’ve never found a man who would face death for love of you.”

“I may have found some who said they would,” replied Mrs. Winter, complacently swallowing the flattery despite all her sophistication, “but that’s a different thing. Let us see how this Romeo comes out of the test.”

“How are you going to put the matter to him, Foxwell?” asked Lady Strange.

“Leave it to me,” was the reply. “Either he shall go free and never see her again, or he shall be our guest here for a stipulated time, and then be given up. The only question is, how long shall that time be?”

“A day,” suggested Mrs. Winter.

“Cruel!—a month,” said Lady Strange.

“I cannot have him on my hands so long,” said Foxwell. “Say a week. Shall the wagers stand, on that condition?”

Rashleigh made no objection, and the two ladies were brought to a hasty acceptance of the compromise by Foxwell placing his finger on his lip in warning of the prisoner’s approach.

Everell came as rapidly as the restraint upon his motions would allow; and stopped as soon as he had entered the room, to avoid proceeding farther with his shuffling steps before the company. Foxwell had a chair placed for him. Caleb and the two other men were ordered to stand ready outside the door, which was then closed. Foxwell sat down near the ladies and Rashleigh, so that the Jacobite now found himself confronted by four pairs of eyes, which paid him the compliment of a well-bred regard vastly different in its effect from the rude stare of the vulgar. His own glance had swiftly informed him that Georgiana was not present.

He sat with undissembled curiosity as to what this interview might unfold. He had obeyed the summons with alacrity, eager to be informed of what was to come. He was neither defiant nor crushed; exhibited neither sullenness nor bravado. In the solitude of his place of detention, he had been tormented with the reproach of having brought trouble upon Georgiana; and he had been sobered and humbled by the knowledge that at last his rashness had laid him by the heels. What could he say to Roughwood now, if that wise friend were there to see the fulfilment of his warnings? But these feelings did not banish hope. Everell’s nature was still buoyant. He was, at least, under the same roof with Georgiana. Death seemed far away: he scarcely thought of it as the natural sequel to his situation. He now looked with frank inquiry at the face of his principal captor for enlightenment as to what was intended concerning him.

“Sir, I have solicited this meeting,” began Foxwell, “in order to discuss our positions—yours and my own. My friends were witnesses to the occurrence by which you fell into my—that is to say, by which you became my guest. They know why I felt bound to detain you, and they will share my confidence to the end of the affair. It would, of course, be their right—perhaps their duty as loyal subjects—to act independently in the interests of Government, if I chose not to act so. But they have agreed to abide by my course, whatever that shall be. So it is well, I think, that they should be present at this interview.”

“I am far from making the least objection, sir,” said Everell, bowing to the ladies and regarding the whole company with an amiable though expectant composure.

“You are aware, of course,” Foxwell continued, “of what will follow if I give you up to the nearest justice. Perhaps you may not know that one Jeremiah Filson is actively concerning himself about you in this neighbourhood on behalf of the Government. He has caused a warrant to be issued against you, he is circulating descriptions which show him to be an accurate and thorough observer.” Foxwell put his hand upon the paper which Rashleigh had laid on the table. “He waits only for news of your whereabouts, to bring the constables upon you. He will be one of the witnesses against you, and the other, I believe, is now at York or Carlisle—I know not which, but the judges have been trying and sentencing your unlucky comrades by the score, gentlemen as well as the lower orders.”

As Foxwell paused, Everell, for want of knowing what better reply to make, answered in a half-smiling manner, though his heart was beating rather faster than usual:

“Sir, I have nothing to say to this—except that ’tis a pity so many poor fellows should die for being on the losing side. Nor do I own that I am the man you think.”

“Too many circumstances leave me no doubt on that point, sir,” said Foxwell, with a serenity which showed the hopelessness of any contest on the ground of identity. “’Tis in your power and right certainly to deny and temporize; but, if you choose to tire me by those methods, I have only to deliver you up at once.”

There was something in the speaker’s quiet voice and cold eyes that gave the whole possibility—trial, sentence, the end—a reality and nearness it had never had in Everell’s mind before. He was startled into a gravity he had not previously felt.

“But,” Foxwell went on, “if you choose that we shall ............