“It was short, indeed!” faintly articulated Marie; “but long enough to bear.”

“To bear!” he answered; “nay, what hadst thou to bear?  The petted minion of two mighty sovereigns, the idol of a nation—­came, and sought, and won—­how couldst thou resist him?  What were my claims to his—­an exile and a foreigner, with nought but my good sword, and a love so deep, so faithful (his voice softened), that it formed my very being?  But what was love to thee before ambition?  Oh, fool, fool that I was, to believe a woman’s tongue—­to dream that truth could dwell in those sweet-sounding words—­those tears, that seemed to tell of grief in parting, bitter as my own—­fool, to believe thy specious tale!  There could be no cause to part us, else wherefore art thou Morales’s wife?  Thou didst never love me!  From the first deceived, thou calledst forth affection, to triumph in thy power, and wreck the slender joys left to an exile!  And yet I love thee—­oh, God, how deeply!”

“Arthur!” answered Marie, and her bloodless lips so quivered, they could scarcely frame the word—­“wrong I have done thee, grievous wrong; but oh! blast not my memory with injuries I have not inflicted.  Look back; recall our every interview.  Had I intended to deceive, to call forth the holiest feelings of the human heart, to make them a mock and scorn, to triumph in a power, of whose very existence till thou breathed love I was unconscious—­should I have said our love was vain—­was so utterly hopeless, we could never be other than strangers—­should I have conjured thee to leave—­aye, and to forget me, had I not felt that I loved too well, and trembled for myself yet more than for thee?  Oh, Arthur, Arthur, do not add to the bitterness of this moment by unjust reproaches!  I have injured thee enough by my ill-fated beauty, and too readily acknowledged love:  but more I have not done.  From the first I said that there was a fate around us—­thine I might never be!”

“Then wherefore wed Morales?  Is he not as I am, and therefore equally unmeet mate for thee—­if, indeed, thy tale be true?  Didst thou not tell me, when I implored thee to say if thy hand was pledged unto another, that such misery was spared thee—­thou wert free, and free wouldst remain while thy heart was mine?”

“Ay,” faltered Marie, “thou rememberest all too well.”

“Then didst thou not deceive?  Art thou not as perjured now as I once believed thee true—­as false as thou art lovely?  How couldst thou love, if so soon it was as nought?”

“Then believe me all thou sayest,” replied Marie, more firmly—­“believe me thus false and perjured, and forget me, Senor Stanley; crush even my memory from thy heart, and give not a thought to one so worthless!  Mystery as there was around me when we first met, there is a double veil around me now, which I may not lift even to clear myself with thee.  Turn thy love into the scorn which my perjury deserves, and leave me.”