you when I began this recital, if you had counted all the consequences.  You know my story; you see with what fate you link yours; reflect!  Francesca carries no mark of her birth; her father or brother could not come inside her home without shocking society by the scandal, were not the story earlier known.  The man whom you struck down this morning is one of our neighbors; you saw and heard his brutal assault:  are you ready to face more of the like kind?  Better than you I know what sentence will be passed upon you,—­what measure awarded.  It is for your own sake I say these things; consider them.  I have finished.”

Surrey had made to speak a half score of times, and as often checked himself,—­partly that he should not interrupt his companion; partly that he might be master of his emotions, and say what he had to utter without heat or excitement.

“Mr. Ercildoune,” he now said, “listen to me.  I should despise myself were I guilty of the wicked and vulgar prejudice universal in America.  I should be beneath contempt did I submit or consent to it.  Two years ago I loved Miss Ercildoune without knowing aught of her birth.  She is the same now as then; should I love her the less?  If anything hard or cruel is in her fate that love can soften, it shall be done.  If any painful burdens have been thrown upon her life, I can carry, if not the whole, then a part of them.  If I cannot put her into a safe shelter where no ill will befall her, I can at least take her into my arms and go with her through the world.  It will be easier for us, I think,—­I hope,—­to face any fate if we are together.  Ah, sir, do not prevent it; do not deny me this happiness.  Be my ambassador, since she will not let me speak for myself, and plead my own cause.”

In his earnestness he had come close to Mr. Ercildoune, putting out his one hand with a gesture of entreaty, with a tone in his voice, and a look in his face, irresistible to hear and behold.  Ercildoune took the hand, and held it in a close, firm grasp.  Some strong emotion shook him.  The expression, a combination of sadness and scorn, which commonly held possession of his eyes, went out of them, leaving them radiant.  “No,” he said, “I will say nothing for you.  I would not for worlds spoil your plea; prevent her hearing, from your own mouth, what you have to say.  I will send her to you,”—­and, going to a door, gave the order to a servant, “Desire Miss Francesca to come to the parlor.”  Then, motioning Surrey to the room, he went away, buried in thought.

Standing in the parlor, for he was too restless to sit, he tried to plan how he should meet her; to think of a sentence which at the outset should disarm her indignation at being thus thrust upon him, and convey in some measure the thought of which his heart was full, without trespassing on her reserve, or telling her of the letter which he had read.  Then another fear seized him; it was two years since he had written,—­two