“Ondoubtedly,” replied Doe; “there’s no two ways about it.  I work on my own hook, in the matter of the fortun’—­’cause how, Dick’s not to be trusted where the play’s all in his own hands; but as for cheating him out of the gal, there’s no manner of good can come of it, and it’s clear agin my own interest.  No, captain, here’s the case; you takes my gal Telie, and Braxley takes the t’other; and so it’s all settled fair between you.”

“Hark you, rascal!” cried Roland, giving way to his feelings; “if you would deserve a reward, you must win it, not by saving me, but my cousin.  My own life I would buy at the price of half the lands which that will makes me master of—­for the rescue of Edith from the vile Braxley I would give all.  Save her—­save her from Braxley—­and then ask me what you will.”

“Well,” said Atkinson, “and you’ll marry my gal?”

“Death and furies! are you besotted?  I will enrich her—­ay, with the best of my estate—­with all—­she shall have it all.”

“And you won’t have her, then?” cried the renegade, starting up in anger:  “you don’t think her good enough for you, because you’re of a great quality stock, and she’s come of nothing but me, John Atkinson, a plain back-woods feller?  Or mayhap,” he added, more temperately, “you’re agin taking her because of my being sich a d—­d notorious rascal?  Well, now, I reckon that’s a thing nobody will know of in Virginny, unless you should tell it yourself.  You can jist call her Telie Jones, or Telie Small, or any nickname of that natur’, and nobody’ll be the wiser; and I shall jist say nothing about it myself—­I won’t, captain, d—­n me; for it’s the gal’s good I’m hunting after, and none of my own.”

“You are mad, I tell you,” cried the soldier.  “Fix your own terms for her:  I will execute any instrument, I will give you any bond—­”

“None of your cussed bonds for me,” said Doe, with great contempt; “I knows the worth of ’em, and I’m jist lawyer enough to see how you could git out of ’em, by swearing they were written under compulsion, or whatsomever you call it.  And, besides, who’s to stop your cheating the gal that has nobody to take care of her, when you gits her in Virginny, where I darn’t follow her?  No, captain, there’s jist but the one way to make all safe and fair; and that’s by marrying her.  So marry her, captain; and jist to be short, captain, you must marry her or burn, there’s no two ways about it.  I make you the last offer; there’s no time for another; for to-morrow you must be help’d off, or it’s too late for you.  Come, captain, jist say the word—­marry the gal, and I’ll save you.”

“You are mad, I tell you again.  Marry her I neither can nor will.  But—­”

“There’s no occasion for more,” interrupted Doe, starting angrily up.  “You’ve jist said the word, and that’s enough.  And now, captain, when you come to the stake, don’t say I brought you there:  no, d—­n it, don’t—­for I’ve done jist all I could do to help you to life and fortun’—­I have, d—­n me, you can’t deny it.”