"My dearest child, what is the matter? Are you ill?" anxiously turning to peer into the lovely face.
"No, papa; but I am so tired of this life."
"That is not like my little girl. And I have tried hard to make you happy. Nothing in reason have I refused you—jewels, such as a queen might envy; priceless stuffs to deck your pretty form, and other things which no girl of your age ever possessed," reproachfully.
Lianor bent down, and kissed his brow, lovingly—repentingly.
"You have been a great deal too good to me. But there is something more I wish to ask; it will make me happy if you will grant my request."
"We shall see. Tell me first what it is."
Lianor briefly related her wish to visit the old temple which lay beyond Goa, to search with Panteleone the curious old ruins she had so often read of in her studies.
Don Gracia looked grave; evidently this project did not find much favor in his eyes.
A Portuguese by birth, but sent to Goa as Viceroy, Don Garcia de Sa had lived there long enough to know the treacherous natures of the Brahmins who dwelt near, and feared to let his child run the risk of being found and captured.
But as Lianor had truly remarked, he loved his daughter so passionately that he very rarely refused her anything, even though he doubted the wisdom of complying with her wishes.