But in lifting her hand he saw a diamond ring sparkling on one slender finger. He tore it off quickly, and a spasm of jealous rage convulsed the handsome features from which he had cast aside the disfiguring mask.
"Valchester's gift, doubtless," he said, holding it scornfully on the tip of his finger. "Let us see what dainty motto the poet chose for his darling!"
He held the sparkling circlet up to the light and read the fine lines cut deeply within it:
"Sans peur et sans reproche!"
Then a groan forced itself through his lips that had grown suddenly cold and pallid.
"Ah, my God! the Ardelle motto! How comes it on the hand of this child?"
But the pale, silent lips of the wronged girl made him no answer. She lay still, with the dark fringe of her lashes lying low upon her white cheek. His eye caught the gleam of a golden locket lying on her breast.
"Ah!" he cried, jealously tearing it open, "my rival's dreamy face, perhaps."
A woman's curl, soft and dark, fell from the locket into his hand, and seemed to twine about his fingers as if in tenderness. He shut it into his hand, and looked for the expected picture of the hated rival.
Two faces smiled out upon him. One was a man's—gentle, tender, dreamy, handsome—the other a face, dark and lovely, with a luring charm about its vivid beauty. The fury, the passion, the jealous rage died out of the outlaw's face as he gazed. His fierce, dark eyes grew soft, then startled, and the whiteness of death overspread his face. He opened his hand, and looked fixedly at the long, curling tress.