“Is it—can it be—a dream?”
“What doos you dream, senhor?” asked the girl, in the old familiar broken English.
“Manuela, dear girl, do not trifle with me. It seems like magic. Did I not see you—in the ballroom—white—the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks?”
“Well, Senhor Armstrong,” said Manuela, earnestly, and in good English, “I admit that I am the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks, but I did not—indeed I did not wish to deceive—”
“Deceive!” interrupted Lawrence, quickly, “as well might you tell me that one of the unfallen angels did not mean to deceive. O dear one, forgive me! I know not how to tell it—but—but—can you believe that a great stupid fellow like myself loves you so that—that—I—well—it’s of no use. I’ll never act wisely if I try to—to—”
He seized her hand. She did not withdraw it. He drew her to him. She did not resist; and there followed a sound—a very slight sound; yet it was not so slight but that it sent a shock of alarm and anger to the soul of Colonel Marchbanks, who came up at that awkward moment.
“Sir! sirrah! senhor,—rascal!” spluttered the old man, as Manuela ran away from the scene, “what—why—what do you mean?”
Drawing himself up, Lawrence said, with a look of dignity—
“Colonel Marchbanks, I can look you honestly in the face, and say that neither in word nor deed have I done you or your daughter wrong.”
“No—have you not?” shouted the colonel. “Sir! rascal!—there is a looking-glass over the mantelpiece in the estancia. Go there, look yourself in the face, and say, if you dare, that you have done me no wrong!”