“Yes.”

“But why?”

She paused a long time, and said at last:

“Perhaps⁠—because I want to be⁠—free!”

And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tracts of forests, untrodden lands⁠—and a realization of what freedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:

“You don’t know, you don’t know, how this hateful place has been prison to me!”

“I understand,” I said, “but⁠—but don’t do anything rash.”

“Oh, rash!” Her voice mocked at my prudence.