It was Mary Ellen’s wish to be driven quickly to the house, but she reckoned without the man.  With a sudden crunching of the wheels the buggy turned and spun swiftly on, headed directly away from home.  “I’ll just take you a turn around the hill,” said Franklin, “and then we’ll go in.”

The “hill” was merely a swell of land, broken on its farther side by a series of coulees that headed up to the edge of the eminence.  These deep wash-cuts dropped off toward the level of the little depression known as the Sinks of the White Woman River, offering a sharp drop, cut up by alternate knifelike ridges and deep gullies.

“It isn’t the way home,” said Mary Ellen.

“I can’t help it,” said Franklin.  “You are my prisoner.  I am going to take you—­to the end of the world.”

“It’s very noble of you to take me this way!” said the girl with scorn.  “What will my people think?”

“Let them think!” exclaimed Franklin desperately.  “It’s my only chance.  Let them think I am offering you myself once more—­my love—­all of me, and that I mean it now a thousand times more than I ever did before.  I can’t do without you!  It’s right for us both.  You deserve a better life than this.  You, a Beauchamp, of the old Virginia Beauchamps—­good God!  It breaks my heart!”

“You have answered yourself, sir,” said Mary Ellen, her voice not steady as she wished.

“You mean—­”

“I am a Beauchamp, of the old Virginia Beauchamps.  I live out here on the prairies, far from home, but I am a Beauchamp of old Virginia.”

“And then?”

“And the Beauchamps kept their promises, women and men—­they always kept them.  They always will.  While there is one of them left alive, man or woman, that one will keep the Beauchamp promise, whatever that has been.”

“I know,” said Franklin gently, “I would rely on your word forever.  I would risk my life and my honour in your hands.  I would believe in you all my life.  Can’t you do as much for me?  There is no stain on my name.  I will love you till the end of the world.  Child—­you don’t know—­”

“I know this, and you have heard me say it before, Mr. Franklin; my promise was given long ago.  You tell me that you can never love any one else.”

“How could I, having seen you?  I will never degrade your memory by loving any one else.  You may at least rely on that.”

“Would you expect me ever to love any one else if I had promised to love you?”

“You would not.  You would keep your promise.  I should trust you with my life.”

“Ah, then, you have your answer!  You expect me to keep my promises to you, but to no one else.  Is that the honourable thing?  Now, listen to me, Mr. Franklin.  I shall keep my promise as a Beauchamp should—­as a Beauchamp shall.  I have told you long ago what that promise was.  I promised to love, to marry him—­Mr. Henry Fairfax—­years ago.  I promised never to love any one else so long as I lived.  He—­he’s keeping his promise now—­back there—­in old Virginia, now.  How would I be keeping mine—­how am I keeping mine, now, even listening to you so long?  Take me back; take me home.  I’m going to—­going to keep my promise, sir!  I’m going to keep it!”