“You say you have lost the other glove?”
Marion nodded an affirmative.
“Tell me then, and truly: did you lose this one?”
“The cavalier, as he spoke, pointed to the white gauntlet.”
“Your meaning, sir?”
“Ah! Marion Wade, you are evading the answer. Tell me if it fell from your fair hand unknown—unnoticed—or was it dropped by design? Tell me—oh, tell me truly!”
He could not read the answer in her eyes: for the long lashes had fallen over them, hiding the blue orbs beneath. The red blood mantling upon her cheeks, and mounting up to her forehead, should have aided him to it, had he been closely observing. Her silence, too, might have served to enlighten him, as to the reply she would have made, had her modesty permitted speech.
“I have been candid with you,” he continued, urging his appeal by argument; “I have thrown myself upon your mercy. If you care not for the happiness of one who would risk his life for yours, then do I adjure you, as you care for truth, to speak the truth! Dropped you this glove by accident, or design?”
With the silence of one who awaits to hear the pronouncing of his sentence, Henry Holtspur sat listening for her answer.
It came like an echo to his speech; but an echo that only repeated the final word.