me. From his
discourse, and from the texts of Scripture he mixed up with it, I knew
him to be a Puritan; and I might have supposed him to be a preacher of
the Gospel, had he not carried a sword, and borne himself so manfully in
the encounter. However, he left me no doubt on the subject, for he told
me he was named Hugh Calveley, and that he had served in the wars with
more honour to himself than profit. He added, that if the knaves had
succeeded in their design, and robbed and slain him, they would have
deprived his daughter of her sole protector; and, indeed, of all means
of subsistence, since the little they had would be lost with him. On
hearing this, a thought struck me, and I said to him--'You have
expressed an earnest desire to requite the service I have just been
fortunate enough to render you, and as I am well assured your
professions are not idly made, I shall not hesitate to proffer a request
to you.' 'Ask what you will; if I have it to give, it shall be yours,'
he replied. 'You make that promise solemnly, and before heaven?' I said.
'I make it solemnly,' he replied. 'And to prove to you that I mean it to
be binding upon me, I will confirm it by an oath upon the Bible.' And as
he spoke he took the sacred volume from his doublet, and reverently
kissed it. Then I said to him--'Sir, you have told me you have a
daughter, but you have not told me whether she is marriageable or not?'
He started at the question, and answered somewhat sternly. 'My daughter
has arrived at womanhood. But wherefore the inquiry? Do you seek her
hand in marriage?' 'If I did so, would you refuse her to me?' A pause
ensued, during which I observed he was struggling with deep emotion, but
he replied at last, 'I could not do so after my solemn promise to you;
but I pray you not to make the demand.' I then said to him: 'Sir, you
cannot lay any restrictions upon me. I shall exact fulfilment of your
promise. Your daughter must be mine.' Again he seemed to be torn by
emotion, and to meditate a refusal; but after a while he suppressed his
feelings, and replied. 'My word is plighted. She shall be yours.--Ay,
though it cost me my life, she shall be yours.' He then inquired my name
and station, and I gave him a different name from that by which I am
known; in fact, I adopted one which chanced to be familiar to him, and
which instantly changed his feelings towards me into those of warmest
friendship. As you may well suppose, I did not think fit to revea