She dropped into a chair, her head on her arms, and Tony in a flash was at her side.

“My poor child, my poor Polixena!” he cried, and wept and clasped her.

“You are rich, are you not?  You would promise them a ransom?” she persisted.

“To enable you to marry the Marquess?”

“To enable you to escape from this place.  Oh, I hope I may never see your face again.”  She fell to weeping once more, and he drew away and paced the floor in a fever.

Presently she sprang up with a fresh air of resolution, and pointed to a clock against the wall.  “The hour is nearly over.  It is quite true that my father is gone to fetch his chaplain.  Oh, I implore you, be warned by me!  There is no other way of escape.”

“And if I do as you say—?”

“You are safe!  You are free!  I stake my life on it.”

“And you—­you are married to that villain?”

“But I shall have saved you.  Tell me your name, that I may say it to myself when I am alone.”

“My name is Anthony.  But you must not marry that fellow.”

“You forgive me, Anthony?  You don’t think too badly of me?”

“I say you must not marry that fellow.”

She laid a trembling hand on his arm.  “Time presses,” she adjured him, “and I warn you there is no other way.”

For a moment he had a vision of his mother, sitting very upright, on a Sunday evening, reading Dr. Tillotson’s sermons in the best parlour at Salem; then he swung round on the girl and caught both her hands in his.  “Yes, there is,” he cried, “if you are willing.  Polixena, let the priest come!”

She shrank back from him, white and radiant.  “Oh, hush, be silent!” she said.

“I am no noble Marquess, and have no great estates,” he cried.  “My father is a plain India merchant in the colony of Massachusetts—­but if you—­”

“Oh, hush, I say!  I don’t know what your long words mean.  But I bless you, bless you, bless you on my knees!” And she knelt before him, and fell to kissing his hands.

He drew her up to his breast and held her there.

“You are willing, Polixena?” he said.

“No, no!” She broke from him with outstretched hands.  “I am not willing.  You mistake me.  I must marry the Marquess, I tell you!”

“On my money?” he taunted her; and her burning blush rebuked him.

“Yes, on your money,” she said sadly.

“Why?  Because, much as you hate him, you hate me still more?”

She was silent.

“If you hate me, why do you sacrifice yourself for me?” he persisted.

“You torture me!  And I tell you the hour is past.”

“Let it pass.  I’ll not accept your sacrifice.  I will not lift a finger to help another man to marry you.”

“Oh, madman, madman!” she murmured.

Tony, with crossed arms, faced her squarely, and she leaned against the wall a few feet off from him.  Her breast throbbed under its lace and falbalas, and her eyes swam with terror and entreaty.