As Holtspur spoke, he pointed to the glove in his hat. Marion’s face betrayed a strange mixture of emotion—half distressed, half triumphant.
She was too much embarrassed to make answer.
The cavalier continued his figurative discourse.
“The finder having no right to the thing found, it should be given up. That is but simple honesty, and scarce deserving of thanks. For example, I have picked up this pretty gauntlet; and, however much I might wish to keep it—as a souvenir of one of the happiest moments of my existence—I feel constrained, by all the rules of honour and honesty, to restore it to its rightful owner—unless that owner, knowing how much I prize it, will consent to my keeping it.”
Holtspur bent low in his saddle, and listened attentively for the rejoinder.
“Keep it!” said Marion, abandoning all affectation of ignorance as to his meaning, and accompanying the assent with a gracious smile. “Keep it, sir, if it so please you.”
Then, as if fearing that she had surrendered too freely, she added in a tone of naïveté,—“It would be no longer of any use to me—since I have lost the other—its fellow.”
This last announcement counteracted the pleasant impression which her consent had produced; and once more precipitated Henry Holtspur into the sea of uncertainty.
“No longer of any use to her,” thought he, repeating her words. “If that be her only motive for bestowing it, then will it be no longer of any value to me.”
He felt something like chagrin. He was almost on the point of returning the doubtful token.