“Be it so,” she said at length; “you shall know this impassable barrier.  You are too honorable to reveal it.  Alas! it is not that fear which restrained me; my own weakness which shrinks from being to thee as to other men, were the truth once known, an object of aversion and of scorn.”

“Aversion! scorn!  Marie, thou ravest,” impetuously exclaimed Stanley; “torture me not by these dark words:  the worst cannot be more suffering.”

But when the words were said, when with blanched lips and cheeks, and yet unfaltering tone, Marie revealed the secret which was to separate them for ever, Arthur staggered back, relinquishing the hands he had so fondly clasped, casting on her one look in which love and aversion were strangely and fearfully blended, and then burying his face in his hands, his whole frame shook as with some sudden and irrepressible anguish.

“Thou knowest all, now,” continued Marie, after a pause, and she stood before him with arms folded on her bosom, and an expression of meek humility struggling with misery on her beautiful features.  “Senor Stanley, I need not now implore you to leave me; that look was sufficient, say but you forgive the deception I have been compelled to practise—­and—­and forget me.  Remember what I am, and you will soon cease to love.”

“Never, never!” replied Stanley, as with passionate agony he flung himself before her.  “Come with me to my own bright land; who shall know what thou art there?  Marie, my own beloved, be mine.  What to me is race or blood?  I see but the Marie I have loved, I shall ever love.  Come with me.  Edward has made overtures of peace if I would return to England.  For thy sake I will live beneath his sway; be but mine, and oh, we shall be happy yet.”

“And my father,” gasped the unhappy girl, for the generous nature of Arthur’s love rendered her trial almost too severe.  “Wilt thou protect him too? wilt thou for my sake forget what he is, and be to him a son?” He turned from her with a stifled groan.  “Thou canst not—­I knew it—­oh bless thee for thy generous love; but tempt me no more, Arthur; it cannot be; I dare not be thy bride.”

“And yet thou speakest of love.  ’Tis false, thou canst not love me,” and Stanley sprung to his feet disappointed, wounded, till he scarce knew what he said.  “I would give up Spain and her monarch’s love for thee.  I would live in slavery beneath a tyrant’s rule to give thee a home of love.  I would forget, trample on, annihilate the prejudices of a life, unite the pure blood of Stanley with the darkened torrent running through thy veins, forget thy race, descent, all but thine own sweet self.  I would do this, all this for love of thee.  And for me, what wilt thou do?—­reject me, bid me leave thee—­and yet thou speakest of love:  ’tis false, thou lovest another better!”

“Ay!” replied Marie, in a tone which startled him, “ay, thou hast rightly spoken; thy words have recalled what in this deep agony I had well nigh forgotten.  There is a love, a duty stronger than that I bear to thee.  I would resign all else, but not my father’s God.”