He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. I never could. Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. “I can’t keep away from you. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. He tried this sentence with expletives. Besides, those things are deadly. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes.
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