So seeing she knew that if
she answered with one least note of banter she would make herself an
object of his magnanimity, than which she would almost rather fall under
his scorn--if he ever stooped to scorn. Suddenly she remembered the
deadlock and was smitten with the conviction that these exchanges were
love's last farewell. Now it was hard to speak at all.
"What was it you told him?"
"I told him how long I'd loved you, and why."
"We both love the river so," murmured Ramsey in a voice broken by the
pounding of her heart.
"Yes. I told him that, for one thing. And I told him how gladly I would
have asked for you long ago had I not seen myself, as you so often saw
me on the _Votaress_----"
"Condemned to inaction," she softly prompted; for if this was farewell a
true maiden must speed the parting.
"Yes."
"By an absolute deadlock," she murmured on. "My father sees it. He knows
it's one yet and must always be one."
"No, a lock but not a deadlock. It's a lock to which your brothers do
not hold the key."
The pounding in her breast, which had grown better, grew worse again.
"Who holds it?"
"Your father. I have just told him so. At no time would I have hesitated
to ask for you if the key had been with your brothers. I would have got
a settlement from them, sink or swim, alive or dead.
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