Miss Hastings leaned breathlessly toward him. Her heart was beating wildly.
“Oh, please!” she begged.
“Perhaps I should have told you at the first,” he began, “or at least after you told me who you were, but—anyway, I didn't. I'd never told anyone before and I didn't much suppose I ever would. There's a reason, though, why I'm particularly interested in this legend, too, a reason just as good as you've got. I'm—well, I'm one of Wildenai's great, great grandsons!”
And then, because she sat quite silent there in the shadows, and motionless except for fingering something white that lay in her lap, he waited uneasily. Was she angry again, he wondered, or perhaps she was only laughing!
She was the first to break the silence.
“Are you trying to be funny?” Her voice was very cold.
“Not at all,” he answered hotly. “It must be all of ten generations back or even more, and of course it wasn't all Spanish afterward, but, just the same, I'm as much a descendant of the princess as you are of the duke,—always have been! I'm just as proud of it, too. Possibly you will remember that the Spanish beat the English to it, at least in California. Anyway,” he finished bitterly, “what difference does it make? So far as I can see, it only gives us one more good subject to quarrel about!”
Then out of the dimness came a queer little sound, whether of tears or of laughter it was impossible to know. For the least part of a second a hand brushed his own.
“Oh, no!” she whispered, “Let's not do that. It wouldn't be right! And see,” she laughed tremulously, “Isn't it strange I should have found it today, but,” she lifted the white thing in her lap, “here is Wildenai's wedding dress—and the chain of garnets!”
The cavern was quite dark before they had finished talking about it, but at length they laid the poor little ghost of a garment reverently back among the stones and rose to go.