“Betty, Betty “—­Gulian saw his mistake, but it was too late; on rushed the torrent of her indignation.

“I wish you—­and him—­to understand that Betty Wolcott is heart and soul with her ‘misguided relatives’ in rebellion against British rule; that nothing—­no, nothing, would induce her to wed an enemy to her country.”

“Nothing, Betty?” said a manly voice behind her, as Yorke himself crossed the threshold, where for the last few seconds he had been an angry listener to Gulian’s blunders.  “Surely you will grant me a moment to plead on my own behalf?”

“And wherefore?” cried Betty.  “You sent your message by him,” with a scornful wave of her hand toward Gulian’s retreating figure; “through him, then, receive my reply.”

“I will not,” said Geoffrey firmly, as the door closed behind Verplanck.  “Sweetheart, will you listen to me?”

“It is useless,” murmured Betty, with a choking sob.  “I was mad to even dream it might be possible.  Gulian has made it all too plain to me.”

“Nay, you must and shall hear me.  I will not leave you until I tell you that I love you devotedly; ah, why should politics and war come between our hearts?  Consider, Betty, I will do all a gentleman and a man of honor can to please you”—­

“But you cannot desert your own people,” she said despairingly.  “I could not love you if you did, for, Geoffrey, it is but due you to confess in this hour of parting that you are very, very dear to me,” and the last words just reached his eager ears as Betty sank, trembling, into a chair.

“Dearest,” he cried, kissing the little hand which lay in his, “will you not bid me hope?  Think, the tide may turn; we are both young, and who can predict the fortunes of war?  I will not bind you, but to you I must myself be bound by the passionate love I bear you.”

“Oh, Geoffrey, my beloved, it cannot be!  I know what my dear and honored father would say.  God guard you—­farewell!”

He caught the dainty form in his arms, he held her next his heart and vowed that come what would he defied fate itself to separate her from him.  “See,” he cried, snatching the knot of rose-colored ribbon from his breast, “I will wear this token always as I have done since the day it dropped from your gown on the grass.  If it be twenty years, I will yet come, with your father’s consent, to win you, and then, then, sweetheart, may I claim my reward?”

“I cannot wed my country’s foe,” she faltered.  “Oh, Geoffrey, be merciful—­let me go.”  At that moment there came a violent knock upon the street door, a sound of voices, and Pompey’s slow step approaching the library door.

“An express for Massa Captain brought by Sir Henry’s orderly,” said the faithful old negro, handing a sealed envelope to Yorke, as he closed the door behind him.  Yorke tore it open; it fell from his hand.  For a moment he stood, tall, gallant, and brave, before Betty; his eyes met hers in long, lingering farewell.