Jaquelina had drawn near the glowing furnace of coals, unconsciously attracted by the warmth that stole deliciously over her drenched and shivering frame.
She was too young and untouched by real sorrow to understand the vague remorse and pathos that quivered in the man's low voice. Yet when she answered "yes," it was a trifle more gently and kindly.
"I could never teach you to love me, then?" he said, questioningly.
"No," the girl said, decidedly, with her curly head set sidewise, and such an owlish gravity about her that the outlaw chief, who seemed "to be all things by turns, and nothing long," felt his risibilities excited, and laughed outright.
"Why do you laugh?" she inquired, with an air of offended dignity.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Meredith, for my rudeness," he said, "but as you stood there with the steam from your drenched clothing rising over your head, and the furnace blazing at your feet, you reminded me so comically of one of Shakespeare's witches that I was forced to laugh."
Jaquelina was thoroughly angry. To be laughed at by this man whom she scorned, was too much.
She stepped back into the darkest and coldest corner of the room, and stood there in silent, dignified displeasure.
"Pray do not allow my silly jest to drive you away from the fire," he exclaimed, anxiously. "Let me entreat you to return."
But his captive had sunk down upon the floor, and buried her face in her hands.