“Yes; they shall not part us now,” she said, nestling to him.
“Hera, how often have I dreamed of finding you!”
“And I of finding you.”
“When, my darling?”
For answer he had her eyes turned upward, timorously, fluttering under the depths of his, and then downcast, while she whispered the words, “Always, Mario, always.” Again their lips were locked.
“Have I your permission to enter?”
The words rang grimly in the old temple, sending their echo from wall to wall. Mario and Hera knew the voice. They turned toward the door, a low opening arched in the Gothic form, and saw standing there a dark figure sharply defined against the sunshine that flooded the cloister. It was the figure of Antonio Tarsis. His posture was that of one quite calm, his arms folded, on his lips an evil smile. He surveyed the others with a mock air of amusement; then, taking off his motoring cap, he made a low bow, and advanced with a broad affectation of humility.
“I thank you for permitting me to enter,” he began, the hoarseness of his tone betraying the anger that consumed him. “My apology is offered—my apology, you understand—for breaking up a love scene between the woman who is to be my wife to-morrow and another man.”
He paused as if expectant of some word from them, but they did not speak; nor did they stir from the spot where they stood when first they beheld him.
“I was passing at the time of the hailstorm, and came in for shelter,” Tarsis continued, feigning the tone of one who felt obliged to explain an intrusion. “I saw your horses out there, and recognising one of them, I judged that Donna Hera was near by. Uncertain of the other horse, I jumped to the natural—possibly you will say foolish—conclusion that it was her father’s.”