"They told me, Margharita, that you, a Marioni, daughter of one of Europe's grandest families, daughter of a race from which princes have sprung, and with whom, in the old days, kings have sought alliance, they told me that you were betrothed to some low American, a trader, a man without family or honor. They told me this, Margharita, and I answered them that they lied. Forgive me for the shadow of a doubt which crossed my mind, sister. Forgive me that I beg for a denial from your own lips."
She lifted her head. She was pale, but her dark eyes had an indignant sparkle in them.
"They did lie, Leonardo," she answered firmly, "but not in the fact itself. It is true that I am engaged to be married."
"Betrothed! Without my sanction! Margharita, how is that? Am I not your guardian?"
"Yes, but, Leonardo, you have been away, and no one knew when you would return, or where you were."
"It is enough. Tell me of the man to whom you are betrothed. I would know his name and family."
"Leonardo, his name is Martin Briscoe, and his family—he has no family that you would know of. It is true that he is an American, but he is a gentleman."
"An American! It is perhaps also true that he is a trader?"
His coolness alarmed her. She looked into his face and trembled.
"I do not know; it may be so. His father——"