"Well then, there is myself," was Salwey's bold announcement. "I—whatever comes or goes—will wear your colours to the end of my life, between my heart and armour! Accept me—as your knight?"
And "Chum," the dog, leaning his muzzle over his master's arm, seemed to second the proposal.
Verona looked down and slowly shook her head; never had she felt so miserable. She seemed to see the panorama of her future, the absolute weariness, and absence of interest from her life. And yet it must be so! Then, with a sudden movement, she raised her face, and confronted her companion. Hard work and the hot weather had told upon him also. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon his figure, the keen blue eyes were sunken and his jaw bone was squarely prominent.
"You must wear the colours of some other lady," she said in a low voice.
"No," he answered resolutely; "yours only—till I die; I will never give you up."
"See, I have brought you some lemonade, you lazy people!" said a voice behind Salwey. And there was Pussy, her face wreathed with smiles, her hands full of cake, and Salwey's vain old bearer—his venerable beard dyed red—standing beside her with a little tray and two tumblers of liquid in which tinkled blocks of ice. Salwey rose at once, and handed one of these to Verona, and took the other himself.
"I wish your enterprise success," said the girl, as she smiled at him gravely before drinking.
"To my heart's desire," he replied with significance, as he pledged her with a bow, and tossed off the contents of the glass.
"Now, I am going to row you back," he said, turning to Pussy, "if you will get in, and sit here beside your sister."
"O—ah! how nice! O—ah! I do love being rowed—it is such hard work—I do hate it!"