If through deed of hers Monmouth was spared that night, Blake, in his despair and rage, might slake his vengeance upon Richard.
"Give me that key," he demanded, his voice cold and quiet, his face set.
"No, no," she cried, setting her hand behind her.

"You shall not go, Anthony.

You shall not go." "I must," he insisted, still cold, but oh! so determined.

"My honour's in it now that I know." "You'll go to your death," she reminded him.
He sneered.

"What signifies a day or so?
Give me the key." "I love you, Anthony!" she cried, livid to the lips.
"Lies!" he answered her contemptuously.