CHAPTER IV.
SHE was still weeping quietly, when the branches of the orange tree which formed a leafy bower around her, were parted, and a voice exclaimed, with passionate intensity,—
‘Maraquita!’
The girl sprang to her feet without any effort to conceal her tears. Henri de Courcelles stood beside her.
‘Oh, go!’ she implored, ‘go at once. You don’t know the risk you are running. My mother suspects us, and she may be back in another moment. For my sake, Henri, go.’
‘Not unless you will tell me the cause of your grief. Is it because this burden is too heavy for you? If so, come with me, and let us share it, and fight the world together.’
‘I cannot talk with you about it now, Henri,’ replied Maraquita, with a look of alarm; ‘it is impossible. You must leave me. I see Jessica coming from the house.’
‘Then where will you meet me, for I shall not rest until you have satisfied my curiosity; besides, I have important news for you about—it.’