From the fervour of his appeal, and the silence with which it had been received, Scarthe was beginning to conceive a hope; and kept his eyes keenly bent upon the countenance of his suitor.
He could read nothing there. Not a thought was betrayed by those beautiful features—immovable as though chiselled out of stone.
When she at length spoke, her answer told him, that he had misinterpreted her silence.
“Captain Scarthe,” said she, “you are a man of the world—one, as I have heard, skilled in the thoughts of our sex—”
“You flatter me,” interrupted he, making an effort to recover his customary coolness. “May I know why I am thus complimented?”
“I did not mean it in that sense. Only to say, that, knowing our nature as you do, you must be aware that what you ask is impossible? O, Sir! woman cannot give her heart. That must be taken from her.”
“And yours, Marion Wade?”
“Is not in my power to give. It has been surrendered already.”
“Surrendered!” cried Scarthe, with an angry emphasis on the word: for this was his first assurance of a fact that had long formed the theme of his conjectures. “Surrendered, you say?”
“’Tis too true. Stolen, if you will, but still surrendered! ’Tis broken now, and cannot be restored. O sir! you would not value it, if offered to you. Do not make that a condition. Accept instead what is still in my power to give—a gratitude that shall know no end!”