“Only that I might see you again,” and Guy is seated beside her.
“Then if you wish to see me once more, take the ruby from me—quick!”
“Never!”
“Never?”
“Never, unless on your finger, you wear this, one of my spoils of Hispaniola.” And the Englishman has taken from a chain about his neck a ring bearing a single brilliant.
“Oh, Santos! What are you doing?” falters the girl.
He has got possession of her fair hand now, and her eyes look into his for one great glance, then turn from him, and droop; their long lashed lids falling upon flaming cheeks. The next instant the diamond sparkles on the taper finger and Hermoine de Alva, the daughter of Spain’s Viceroy is only woman—loving woman—before this man, who has not wooed her heart, but has seized it.
“Take the ruby—now you’ve given me the diamond,” she murmurs. “You—you know what this means?”
“Please God, I do! You are my plighted bride. Mine—mine now forever!” And his audacious lips give lover’s greeting, not as the night before, the kiss of hasty mistletoe effect, but the long rapture of clinging hearts.
“Beware! I—I am the Viceroy’s daughter,” murmurs the lady. She hangs her head, then suddenly raises her eyes to his and goes on firmly, distinctly: “My Guido, you are audacious!”