I felt willing to brave every
danger, to face death itself, if it were necessary, to release you from
the horrid doom that awaits you--to save you from the living grave which
yawns to receive you. I am willing still, in spite of your alienated
affection, your perjured vows and broken faith--so mighty and
all-conquering is even the memory of the love of woman. Here, wrap this
cloak about you, pull this cap over your brows--your long, dark hair
will aid the disguise. The jailer will not detect it, or mark your
taller figure, by this dim and gloomy light. He is sleepy and weary, and
I know his senses are deadened by brandy; I perceived its burning fumes
as we walked that close and narrow passage. Clinton, there is no danger
to myself in this release, you know there is not. The moment they
discover me, they will let me go. Hasten, for he will soon be here."

"Impossible," exclaimed Clinton, "I cannot consent; I cannot leave you
in this cell--this cold, fireless cell, on such a night as this. I
cannot expose you to your father's displeasure, to the censures of the
world. No, Mittie, I am not worthy of this generous devotion; but from
my soul I bless you for it. Besides, it would be all in vain. A
discovery would be inevitable."

"Escape would be certain," she cried, with increasing energy. "I marked
that jailer well--his senses are too much blunted for the exercise of
clear perception. You are slender and not very tall; your face is as
fair as mine, your hair of the same color. If you refuse, I will seek a
colder couch than that pallet of straw; I will pass the night under the
leafless trees, and my pillow shall be the snowy ground. As for my
father's displeasure, I have incurred it already. As for the censures of
the world, I scorn them. What do you call the world? This village, this
town, this little, narrow sphere? I live in a world of my own, as high
above it as the heavens are above the earth."

Clinton's opposition weakened before her commanding energy. The hope of
freedom kindled in his breast, and lighted up his countenance.

"But you," said he, irresolutely, "even if you could endure the horrors
of the night, cannot be concealed on his entrance. How can you pass for
me?" he cried, looking down on her woman's apparel, for she had thrown
the cloak over his arm, and stood in her own flowing robes.

"I will throw myself on the pallet, and draw the blankets over me. My
sable locks," gathering them back in her hand,