She started as she saw me stride to her, but in a moment fell again into her listless attitude, and looked languidly at the man behind the mast. He started too, and I saw to my little ease it was Mr. Oxenham. We stared hard and stiffly at each other, saying nothing. He seemed disturbed by my coming, but hid his confusion by drawing himself to his full height, and gently twisting his well-grown moustache with one hand, while the other rested on his sword. So he stood looking at me and waiting, with eyebrows raised superciliously.
'Has my worshipper no offering for his goddess?' said the Señorita's musical voice. 'I expected something richer than silence after so long an absence.'
'Nay, silence is golden,' said Mr. Oxenham mockingly. 'What would you more? Mr. Festing brings his best.'
I know not whether it were self-love or love of her that made their words hurt me so sore, but I know I had much ado to bridle my lips.
'Truly, Señorita,' said I, 'silence is the most precious offering I have to give. Had I never laid on your altar aught less worthy than that, methinks I should have been a more loyal worshipper.'
She met my gaze with her dark eyes wide open for a moment, and then dropped them again with a strange little laugh.
'Save me, then,' she said, 'from loyal worshippers! Such barren heretic ritual I call no-worship.'
'Name it as you will, lady,' I answered; 'my comfort must still be that "no-worship" is better than sacrilege. If I cannot be a worshipper, at least I will not profane the shrine.'
She flushed a little higher at this, and looked at me again, half inquiring, half frightened, and then once more dropped her eyes.
'Was this what you came hither to say, false worshipper?' she said, as though a little vexed.