"Cleone!—hear me! nay, I will speak! All the afternoon I have tried to get a word with you, and now you must hear me—you shall. And yet you know what I would say. You know I love you, and have done from the first hour I saw you. And from that hour I've hungered for your, Cleone, do you hear? Ah, tell me you love me!"
But my lady sat wide-eyed, staring at the face amid the leaves beyond the open window,—a face so handsome, yet so distorted; saw the gleam of clenched teeth, the frowning brows, the menacing gray eyes.
Sir Mortimer, all unconscious, had caught her listless hands to his lips, and was speaking again between his kisses.
"Speak, Cleone! You know how long I have loved you,—speak and bid me hope! What, silent still? Why, then—give me that rose from your bosom,—let it be hope's messenger, and speak for you."
But still my lady sat dumb, staring up at the face amid the leaves, the face of Man Primeval, aglow with all the primitive passions; beheld the drawn lips and quivering nostrils, the tense jaw savage and masterful, and the glowing eyes that threatened her. And, in that moment, she threw tip her head rebellious, and sighed, and smiled,—a woman's smile, proud, defiant; and, uttering no word, gave Sir Mortimer the rose. Then, even as she did so, sprang to her feet, and laughed, a little tremulously, and bade Sir Mortimer Go! Go! Go! Wherefore, Sir Mortimer, seeing her thus, and being wise in the ways of women, pressed the flower to his lips, and so turned and strode off down the path. And when his step had died away Cleone sank down in the chair, and spoke.
"Come out—spy!" she called. And Barnabas stepped out from the leaves. Then, because she knew what look was in his eyes, she kept her own averted; and because she was a woman young, and very proud, she lashed him with her tongue.
"So much for your watching and listening!" said she.
"But—he has your rose!" said Barnabas.
"And what of that?"
"And he has your promise!"