"Have I lied to you, Señor Englishman? Do you believe, now, that I hold that golden tress as a pledge of future favours? The lady on whose faith you were ready to stake your soul is here to answer for herself, and she has thrown in her lot with me—with me, señor."
"Margaret—Margaret!" cried my dear love, "tell him he lies, sweetheart!"
I opened my lips, but the words died on my tongue. Again my poor love cried to me, holding out his arms. I saw his white face grow paler still, and he swayed uncertainly where he stood. Then, gathering all his strength, he threw himself upon the Spaniard and would have torn us apart, had not his weak limbs given way, so that he fell prone upon the floor.
Melinza's hand went to his sword; he drew the blade and held it to my dear love's throat.
"SPARE THE MAN, DON PEDRO! I LIKE NOT THE SIGHT OF BLOOD."—Page 125.
At last my voice came back to me; I laid my hand upon the Spaniard's arm. "Spare the man, Don Pedro! I like not the sight of blood!"
Then I saw mortal agony in a brave man's eyes. He made no move to rise, but lay there at my feet and looked at me.
"Margaret Tudor," he said, "do you love me still?"