There was an amount of pathos in the manner as well as the words the young mountaineer had given utterance to that for a moment touched the heart of his rival.
“Poor fellow,” thought Ethalwood, “he is most terribly in love.”
There was a pause, after which the nobleman said in a less cold tone—
“I very much regret that you should take this matter so much to heart; but, upon my word, Monsieur Chanet, I cannot see how you can blame me.”
“Not blame you! You have won from me the love of the only woman I had ever loved.”
“No such thing. It is a mere supposition on your part. A chimera—a dream.”
“It is no dream, milor. It is a certainty.”
“But what proofs have you to offer? Assertions without proofs are valueless—everybody knows that.”
“Proofs!” iterated Chanet. “Oh, milor, don’t deny it. Last night I saw you and Theresa seated on the platform of a rock; your hands locked together, your cheeks touching, and you breathing soft words into her ear. Do you take me for a fool to doubt after what I have seen?”
The earl’s face became at once of a heightened colour, and he stammered out—