"Nay, not there," said the Captain instantly. "Here, madam, here, at my side."
"Not yet, señor capitan; it were not fit that a prisoner should occupy so high a seat of honor. Wait until——"
"Until what, pray?" he cried, leaning forward.
"Until that—until I—until we——"
In spite of her efforts she could not force her lips to admit the possibility of the realization of his desire.
"Until you are Lady Morgan?" he cried, his face flaming.
She buried her face in her hands at his suggestion, for she feared her horror in the thought would show too plainly there; and then because she dare not lose sight of him, she constrained herself to look at him once more. Her cheeks were burning with shame, her eyes flashing with indignation, though she forced her lips into the semblance of a smile.
"That surprises you, does it?" continued the man with boasting condescension. "You did not think I designed so to honor you after last night, madam? Scuttle me, these"—pointing to his face—"are fierce love taps, but I fancy a strong will—when I can break it to mine own," he muttered, "and I have yet to see that in man or woman that could resist mine."
She noted with painful fascination the powerful movements of his lean fingers as he spoke, for his sinewy right hand, wrinkled and hideous, lay stretched out on the table before him, and he clasped and unclasped it unconsciously as he made his threat.
"I like you none the less for your spirit, ma'am. 'Fore God, it runs with your beauty. You are silent," he continued, staring at her with red-eyed, drunken suspicion. "You do not answer?"