“It was a lie.”
“A lie?”
“Yes, a lie; the same as all the other reports circulated about me, the same as that base one told you two minutes ago—that I was a drunken debauchee, too drunk to do anything you asked me. Do I look drunk now?”
She gazes at him. His handsome face bears no signs of dissipation. His eyes blazing, indignant, fiery but loving, gaze at her. He stands haughty and erect, and she cries: “No, no, you are fit to do any woman’s bidding.”
“Then if I’m sober now, when he said I was drunk, I was sober in Middelburg when they told you I was a dissipated roué. It was a lie, a lie furnished by some rival. Who is my rival? Is it Noircarmes?” and he strides up to her. “Tell me, have you had word of love with him, with my ring on your finger?” Then looking down, he starts and sighs: “Good God! it is not there!” next bursts out at her: “By this sign I am truer than you!”
And Guy, holding the blazing ruby up before her, she droops her eyes but looks so infinitely lovely that he could crush her to his breast. These orbs that sink before his, yet gaze on him, are not the eyes of the picture of the Madonna he has gazed upon, or of the miniature by which he has tried to assuage his hungry heart these many months, but passionate dazzling, real eyes—the eyes of Hermoine de Alva.
It is not her placid form upon the canvas he is gazing on, but the live loveliness of real flesh and blood and vivacious womanhood.
“I am the judge now, not you!” he cries. “Answer!” for she is blushing and paling and fluttering like a guilty one: “Forgive me!”
But knight of jealous heart answers “No!”
And princess of love and grace cries: “You shall!”