“For God’s sake, Consuelo—­”

“We shall see.  Now let me speak—­if I can.  There are three reasons why you and I should not marry.  I have thought of them through all last night and all to-day, and I know them.  The first is my solemn vow to the dying man who loved me so well and who asked nothing but that—­whose wife I never was, but whose name I bear.  Think me mad, superstitious—­what you will—­I cannot break that promise.  It was almost an oath not to love, and if it was I have broken it.  But the rest I can keep, and will.  The next reason is that I am older than you.  I might forget that, I have forgotten it more than once, but the time will come soon when you will remember it.”

Orsino made an angry gesture and would have spoken, but she checked him.

“Pass that over, since we are both young.  The third reason is harder to tell and no power on earth can explain it away.  I am no match for you in birth, Orsino—­”

The young man interrupted her now, and fiercely.

“Do you dare to think that I care what your birth may be?” he asked.

“There are those who do care, even if you do not, dear one,” she answered quietly.

“And what is their caring to you or me?”

“It is not so small a matter as you think.  I am not talking of a mere difference in rank.  It is worse than that.  I do not really know who I am.  Do you understand?  I do not know who my mother was nor whether she is alive or dead, and before I was married I did not bear my father’s name.”

“But you know your father—­you know his name at least?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he?” Orsino could hardly pronounce the words of the question.

“Count Spicca.”

Maria Consuelo spoke quietly, but her fingers trembled nervously and she watched Orsino’s face in evident distress and anxiety.  As for Orsino, he was almost dumb with amazement.

“Spicca!  Spicca your father!” he repeated indistinctly.

In all his many speculations as to the tie which existed between Maria Consuelo and the old duellist, he had never thought of this one.

“Then you never suspected it?” asked Maria Consuelo.

“How should I?  And your own father killed your husband—­good Heavens!  What a story!”

“You know now.  You see for yourself how impossible it is that I should marry you.”

In his excitement Orsino had risen and was pacing the room.  He scarcely heard her last words, and did not say anything in reply.  Maria Consuelo lay quite still upon the lounge, her hands clasped tightly together and straining upon each other.

“You see it all now,” she said again.  This time his attention was arrested and he stopped before her.

“Yes.  I see what you mean.  But I do not see it as you see it.  I do not see that any of these things you have told me need hinder our marriage.”

Maria Consuelo did not move, but her expression changed.  The light stole slowly into her face and lingered there, not driving away the sadness but illuminating it.