"And yet, on his deathbed, he compelled me to promise that I would marry Antoinette!"
"He thought you would forget me."
"Can those who truly love ever forget?" cried Philip. "But what is to be done?" he asked.
Dolores made no response. She stood before him with eyes downcast that he might not see the conflict which was raging in her soul. Philip took advantage of her hesitation to plead his cause anew.
"Listen, Dolores; it is not right that we should all sacrifice ourselves to my father's ambition; and if I wed Antoinette, still loving you, I cannot make her happy. Besides, what would become of you?"
"But if I listen to you, what will become of Antoinette?"
"She will forget. She loves me because she met me before she met any other young man, before she had seen the world; but she will soon forget me. After a few tears that cannot compare in bitterness with those that I have shed, and with those I shall shed, if I am compelled to give you up, she will bestow her love elsewhere."
"Do not wrong her, Philip. For four long years she has considered herself your wife in the sight of God, and now you would leave her to mourn your infidelity!"
"My infidelity!"