"What shall not begin here at the Manor Cartier?" she asked with burning cheek.
"The shame—it shall not begin here."
"What shame, father?"
"Of marriage with a Protestant and an actor."
"You will not let me marry him?" she persisted stubbornly.
Her words seemed to shake him all to pieces. It was as though he was going through the older tragedy all over again. It had possessed him ever since the sight of Carmen's guitar had driven him mad three hours ago. He swayed to and fro, even as he did when his hand left the lever and he let the master-carpenter go free. It was indeed a philosopher under torture, a spirit rocking on its anchor. Just now she had put into words herself what, even in his fear, he had hoped had no place in her mind—marriage with the man. He did not know this daughter of his very well. There was that in her which was far beyond his ken. Thousands of miles away in Spain it had origin, and the stream of tendency came down through long generations, by courses unknown to him.
"Marry him—you want to marry him!" he gasped. "You, my Zoe, want to marry that tramp of a Protestant!"
Her eyes blazed in anger. Tramp—the man with the air of a young Alexander, with a voice like the low notes of the guitar thrown to the flames! Tramp!
"If I love him I ought to marry him," she answered with a kind of calmness, however, though all her body was quivering. Suddenly she came close to her father, a great sympathy welled up in her eyes, and her voice shook.
"I do not want to leave you, father, and I never meant to do so. I never thought of it as possible; but now it is different. I want to stay with you; but I want to go with him too."