“The murderer of my brother—­my mother’s jailer!  Oh, Nigel, Nigel, to look on him were more than death!” she wildly exclaimed.  “Yet, yet once known as Agnes of Buchan, this will, this must be; but leave thee now, leave thee to a tyrant’s doom, if indeed, indeed thou fallest in his hands—­leave thee, when faithful love and woman’s tenderness are more than ever needed—­leave thee for a fear like this, no, no, I will not.  Nigel, I will rest with thee.  Speak not, answer not; give us one short moment, and then—­oh, all the ills may be averted by one brief word—­and I, oh, can I speak it?” She paused in fearful agitation, and every limb shook as if she must have fallen; the blood rushed up to cheek, and brow, and neck, as, fixing her beautiful eyes on Nigel’s face, she said, in a low yet thrilling voice, “Let the voice of heaven hallow the vows we have so often spoken, Nigel.  Give me a right, a sacred right to bear thy name, to be thine own, at the altar’s foot, by the holy abbot’s blessing.  Let us pledge our troth, and then let what will come, no man can part us.  I am thine, only thine!”

Without waiting for a reply, she buried her face in his bosom, and Nigel could feel her heart throb as if ’twould burst its bounds, her frame quiver as if the torrent of blood, checked and stayed to give strength for the effort, now rushed back with such overwhelming force through its varied channels as to threaten life itself.

“Agnes, my own noble, self-devoted love! oh, how may I answer thee?” he cried, tears of strong emotion coursing down his cheek—­tears, and the warrior felt no shame.  “How have I been deserving of love like this—­how may I repay it? how bless thee for such words?  Mine own, mine own! this would indeed guard thee from the most dreaded ills; yet how may I link that self-devoted heart to one whose thread of life is well-nigh spun? how may I make thee mine, when a few brief weeks of misery and horror must part us, and on earth, forever?”

“No, no; thou knowest not all a wife may do, my Nigel,” she said, as she raised her head from his bosom, and faintly smiled, though her frame still shook; “how she may plead even with a tyrant, and find mercy; or if this fail, how she may open iron gates and break through bonds, till freedom may be found.  Oh, no, we shall not wed to part, beloved; but live and yet be happy, doubt it not; and then, oh, then forget the words that joined us, made us one, had birth from other lips than thine;—­thou wilt forget, forgive this, Nigel?”

“Forget—­forgive! that to thy pure, unselfish soul I owe the bliss which e’en at this hour I feel,” he answered, passionately kissing the beautiful brow upturned to his; “forget words that have proved—­had I needed proof—­how purely, nobly, faithfully I am beloved; how utterly, how wholly thou hast forgotten all of self for me!  No, no! were thy words proved true, might I indeed live blessed with thee the life allotted man, each year, each month I would recall this hour, and bless