The white hand falls from his arm, she steps backward a pace, and stares at him mutely, with great, wondering, dark eyes.
He repeats the words:
"Reine, will you be my wife? Will you go down-stairs and marry me, a jilted man? Will you take the man your beautiful cousin deemed worthless?"
A passionate sarcasm quivers in his tone. She looks at him, the deep, rich color flushing into her cheeks.
"You do not mean it; you are jesting!" she cries, in a vaguely troubled tone.
"I do," he answers. "The guests are here; the feast is provided; the minister waits. Nothing is lacking but the bride, who has fled to the arms of another. Will you throw yourself into the breach, Reine, and make everybody happy?"
"If I thought I could," she begins, with a questioning glance, and a delicious thrill at her heart. Something whispers to her that he would wed her to spite Maud, yet her instinct prompts her to take him at his word. In time her tender love must win a return from him.
"You must not stop to think," the strange wooer says, impatiently. "Everyone is waiting, and your uncle is most impatient. I have his permission to win you if I can."
"Uncle Langton wishes it?" she asks, wondering.
"Yes. What is your answer, Reine?"