“Mr. Mapleson,” she pleaded, “pray do not importune me further; for, truly, I can give you no other answer; my feelings can never change; I do not love you—I can never love you.”
He seized her hand in an eager, trembling grasp, and bent his proud head until his forehead rested upon it.
“Why do you say that?” he cried, “that you can never love me? You do not know. I will serve for you—I will prove my devotion; oh! give me time, Gladys, before you discard me utterly, and no slave ever served more faithfully for the coveted gift of freedom, than I will serve, in any way, to win you, my fair love.”
“No, no; please say no more, it is useless,” she murmured, brokenly.
He raised his head and looked eagerly into her face.
“There can be but one reason for such a persistent refusal, such a decided answer,” he said, in a low, concentrated tone; “you have given the wealth of your love to another!”
Even by the dim light of the moon which came struggling in upon them through the network of vines upon the balcony, he could see the vivid color which shot up over her cheek and brow, and dyed even the fair shoulders, beneath their gauzy covering, at this direct charge.
He grew pale as death.
“It is true! I know it must be true!” he said, in the tones of one who has suddenly been calmed or benumbed by a terrible shock.
“You never could have resisted an appeal like mine,” he went on, between his tightly shut teeth, “if it were not so. Tell me,” he continued, growing excited again, “is it so? have I guessed rightly?”