“I’ve now but one thing worth living for,” responded the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade, “and that is your love, Holtspur. Promise me that when you love me no more, you will tell me you do not, truly and without fear. Promise that, Henry: for then I shall be happier to die.”
“Nonsense, Marion! Why should I enter into such an idle condition? You know I shall love you, as long as I live.”
“Henry! Henry! Do not deny me what I have asked? What is there unreasonable in my request?”
“Nothing, dearest Marion. If you insist upon it, you shall have my promise—more than that, my oath. I swear I shall be candid and declare the truth. If ever my heart cease to love you, I shall tell you of its treason. How easily can I promise, what can never come to pass!”
“But you may be far away, Henry? Enemies may be between us? You may not be able to see me? Then—”
“Then, what would you have me do, dear Marion?”
“Return the token I have given you. Send me back my glove—the White Gauntlet. When I see that, ’twill tell me that he to whom I had given it—and along with it my heart—that he who once prized the gift, esteems it no more. That would be a gentler way than words—for your words telling me that bitter truth, might be the last to which I should ever listen.”
“If it please you, dearest, I promise to comply with you conditions—however idle I may deem them. Ah Marion! you shall never get that glove again—never from me. I prize the white gauntlet too much, ever to part with it; more than aught else in the world—excepting the white hand which it once shielded, and which, God willing, shall yet be mine!”
As Holtspur uttered this impassioned speech, he raised the “white hand” to his lips; and imprinted upon it a fond, fervent kiss.
It was the parting salute—though not intended as such. The lightning flashed at that moment, displaying two forms in an attitude that proclaimed them lovers who had made mutual surrender of their souls.