“To speak with me alone? I am at a loss to know, sir, what you can have to say that requires such a condition.”
“You shall know, Mistress Wade; if, indeed, you have not divined my purpose already. Need I tell you that I am in love?”
“And why, Sir, have you chosen me for this confidence? I should think that was a secret to be communicated only to her whom it concerns?”
“And to her alone has it been communicated. Surely I need not name the object of my love. You cannot have been blind to emotions—to sufferings—I have been unable to conceal. I can be silent no longer. O Marion Wade! I love you with all the fondness of a true affection—all the fervour of an admiration that knows no limits. Do not be angry at me for thus declaring myself. Do not frown upon my suit. O, beautiful Marion! say that I may hope?”
Scarthe had dashed his helmet to the ground, and flung himself on his knees in the attitude of an humble suppliant. With eyes upturned to her face, he tremblingly awaited the reply.
She was silent. Her features betrayed no sign of gladness, as she listened to that earnest declaration. Scarce, even, did they show surprise. Whatever of this she may have felt was concealed under the cloud of chagrin, that, springing from a very different cause, still overspread her countenance.
The kneeling suitor waited some moments for a response; but none was given. She to whom he was making suit remained proudly silent.
Becoming sensible of a certain ludicrousness in the situation, Scarthe impatiently continued:—“Oh! do not deny me! At least, vouchsafe an answer. If it be favourable, I promise—I swear—that my heart—my hand—my soul—my sword—my life—all will be yours—yours for any sacrifice you may summon me to make. O Marion!—beautiful Marion Wade!—I know I am not worthy of you now. Think not of me as I am; but rather what I shall be. I may one day be more deserving of your esteem—perhaps your love. I have hopes of preferment—high hopes. I may be excused for saying, they are founded on the patronage of a queen. With one like you for my bride—my wife—highborn, gifted, lovelier than all others, these hopes would soon be realised. To be worthy of loving you—to have the pleasure of illustrating you—of making you happy by the highest fame—I could accomplish anything. Fear not, Marion Wade! He who sues to you, if now humble, may hope for higher rank. Ere long shall I obtain the much-coveted title of Lord. It matters little to me. Only for your sake should I prize it. But oh! hapless lord should I be, if not the lord of your heart! A word, Marion Wade!—one word! Tell me I may hope?”
Marion turned her eyes upon the eloquent suppliant. His attitude, the expression of his countenance, and the fervent tone in which he had declared himself, were evidence that he was in earnest. She could not fail to perceive that he loved her. Whatever may have been the deceit of his nature, in other respects, there could be no doubt that he was honest in his admiration for herself.
Perhaps it was this thought that restrained her from making an indignant reply. Why should she be offended at one thus humbly suing—one who was willing to become her slave?