Marion looked up. Holtspur, still seated in his saddle, was tenderly gazing upon her.
It was at this moment, that Sir Marmaduke was called upon to interfere between the cuirassiers of Scarthe, and his own enthusiastic escort. For an instant Marion and Holtspur were left alone.
“I thank you, sir,” said she, her voice trembling from a conflict of emotions—“I thank you for my father’s life. The happiness arising from that is some recompense—for—for the misery you have caused me.”
“Misery, Marion? I—I—”
“Oh, sir, let it pass. ’Tis better without explanation. You know what is meant—too well you know it. O Henry! Henry! I could not have believed you capable of such a deception—such cruelty.”
“Cruelty?”
“No more—go—go! Leave me to my sorrow—leave me to a life-long repentance!”
“I obey your commands,” said Holtspur, taking up his bridle-reins, as if with the intention of riding away. “Alas!” he added, in an accent of bitterness, “whither am I to go? For me there is no life—no happiness—where thou art not O God! whither am I to go?”
“To your wife,” muttered Marion, in a low reproachful tone, and with faltering accent.
“Ha! ’tis that! You have heard then?”