288 THE SMUGGLER. 



and on myself; and I leave it to your own heart to decide. 

 After your generous, your noble offer, to sacrifice your property 

 and leave yourself nothing for my sake, it were cruel ; it were, 

 indeed, base, to urge you farther. To avoid this dreadful dis- 

 closure, to shelter you and myself from such horrible details, I 

 have often been stern, and harsh, and menacing. Forgive me, 

 Edith, but it is past! You now know what is on the die; 

 and it is your own hand casts it. Your father's life, the 

 honour of your family, the high name we have ever -borne, 

 these are to be lost and won. But I urge it, I ask it not. 

 You only must and can decide." 



Edith, who had risen, stood before him, pale as ashes, with 

 her hands clasped so tight that the blood retreated from her 

 fingers, where they pressed against each other, leaving them 

 as white as those of the dead: her eyes fixed, straining, but 

 sightless, upon the ground. All that she saw, all that she 

 knew, all that she felt, was the dreadful alternative of fates 

 before her. It was more than her frame could bear, it was 

 more than almost any heart could endure. To condemn a 

 father to death, to bring the everlasting regret into her heart, 

 to wander, as if accurst, over the earth, with a parent's blood 

 crying out for vengeance ! It was a terrible thought, indeed. 

 Then again, she remembered the vows that she had taken, the 

 impossibility of performing those that were asked of her, the 

 sacrifice of the innocent to the guilty, the perjury that she 

 must commit, the dark and dreadful future before her, the self- 

 reproach that stood on either hand to follow her through life I 

 She felt as if her heart was bursting; and the next moment, 

 all the blood seemed to fly from it, and leave it cold and 

 motionless. She strove to speak, her voice was choked ; but 

 then, again, she made an effort, and a few words broke forth, 

 convulsively: "To save you, my father, I would do anything," 

 she cried. " I will do anything, but " 



She could not finish ; her sight failed her ; her heart seemed 

 crushed ; her head swam ; the colour left her lips ; and 

 she fell prone at her father's feet, without one effort to save 

 herself. 



Sir Eobert Croyland's first proceeding was, to raise her and 

 lay her on the sofa; but before he called any one, he gazed at 

 her a moment or two in silence. " She has fainted," he said. 

 " Poor child! Poor girl!" But then came another thought: 



