“Softly, my friend—softly. How was I to know all this?”
“You ought to have known it!” returned Sir Norman, in the same dogmatical way; “or if you didn't, you do now; so say no more about it. Where is she, I tell you?” repeated the young man, in a frenzy.
“Your patience one moment longer, until we see which of us has the best right to the lady. I have a prior claim.”
“A forced one. Leoline does not care a snap far you—and she loves me.”
“What extraordinary bad taste!” said the count, thoughtfully. “Did she tell you that?”
“Yes; she did tell me this, and a great deal more. Come—have done talking, and tell me where she is, or I'll—”
“Oh, no, you wouldn't!” said the count, teasingly. “Since matters stand in this light I'll tell you what I'll do. I acknowledge that I carried off Leoline, viewing her as my promised bride, and have sent her to my own home in the care of a trusty messenger, where I give you my word of honor, I have not been since. She is as safe there, and much safer than in her own house, until morning, and it would be a pity to disturb her at this unseasonable hour. When the morning comes, we will both go to her together—state our rival claims—and whichever one she decides on accepting, can have her, and end the matter at once.”
The count paused and meditated. This proposal was all very plausible and nice on the surface, but Sir Norman with his usual penetration and acuteness, looked farther than the surface, and found a flaw.
“And how am I to know,” he asked, doubtingly, “that you will not go to her to-night and spirit her off where I will never hear of either of you again?”
“In the very best way in the world: we will not part company until morning comes, are we at peace?” inquired the count, smiling and holding out but hand.