"
"The daughter of the people loves truth and manly bearing,
Stephen Morley; and will treat with contempt all those who
slander women, whether they be nobles or serfs."
"And where is the slanderer?"
"Ask him who told you I held assignations with Mr Egremont or
with any one."
"Mine eyes--mine own eyes--were my informant," said Morley.
"This morn, the very morn I arrived in London, I learnt how
your matins were now spent. Yes!" he added in a tone of
mournful anguish, "I passed the gate of the gardens; I
witnessed your adieus."
"We met by hazard," said Sybil, in a calm tone, and with an
expression that denoted she was thinking of other things, "and
in all probability we shall never meet again. Talk not of
these trifles. Stephen; my father, how can we save him?"
"Are they trifles?" said Morley, slowly and earnestly, walking
to her side, and looking her intently in the face. "Are they
indeed trifles, Sybil? Oh! make me credit that, and then--"
he paused.
Sybil returned his gaze: the deep lustre of her dark orb
rested on his peering vision; his eye fled from the unequal
contest: his heart throbbed, his limbs trembled; he fell upon
his knee.
"Pardon me, pardon me," he said, and he took her hand.
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