"So I have found you, faithless one," she said. "I have been seeking for you everywhere."
"And I, have I not been seeking for you all these weeks—and never have found you till now, Lucia!"
I thought she would not notice the name.
"Why, Sir Heather Jock," she returned, "did you not part with me last night at eleven of the clock?"
"Pardon me," I replied, letting the love in my heart woo her through my eyes, and say what I dared not—at least, not here upon the open bridge over which we slowly walked. "Pardon me, it is true that I parted at eleven of the clock last night with Madame the Countess of Castel del Monte. But, on the contrary, this morning I have met Lucia—my little Saint Lucy of the Eyes."
"Who in Galloway taught you to make such speeches?" she said. "It is all too pretty to have been said thus trippingly for the first time."
"Love," I made answer. "Love, the Master, taught me; for never before have I known either a Countess or a Lucia!"
"'Douglas, Douglas, tender and true,' does not your song say?" said she.
"Will you ever be true, Douglas?"
"Lucy, will you ever be cruel? I dare you to say these things to-night when I come to see you. 'Tis easy to dare to say them in the face of the streets."
"Ah, Douglas, you will not see me to-night! I have come to bid you farewell—farewell!" said she, as tragically as she dared, yet so that I alone would hear her. Her eyes darted here and there, noting who came near; and a smile flickered about her mouth as she calculated precisely the breaking strain of my patience, and teased me up to that point. I can easily enough see her elvish intent now, but I did not then.