“I thought—I thought that I had given my heart to a stranger—and I was married—and—” she broke off, she could not speak for his kisses.
“Would you have divorced the beggar for me?” he whispered maliciously.
“O Donough!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck in the very ecstasy of her joy at her escape from such a dilemma, “O Donough, it would have broken my heart if you hadn’t been—you!”
Again a silence and then,—
“Why did you put your foot on the shamrock?” he whispered.
She hid her face on his neck. “I wanted it,” she confessed, in a smothered tone, “I wanted it to keep! Where is it?”
He drew it from his breast, a withered sprig folded in a piece of paper, and she seized upon it and kissed it.
“Nay,” he said, “that you shall not—not even my shamrock shall share your kisses with me! That is one stolen from me, madam, give me the shamrock.”
“Never!” she defied him, clasping it to her own bosom, “never—’tis mine to wear for your sake.”
His eyes shone. “My Irish beauty,” he said, “roisin bheag dubh!—if I may not have the shamrock I must have the kiss back.”