“Margarita!”
She started at his voice, but turned and at once advanced to meet him. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, too, as she did so, and the hand she extended to him trembled from emotion. Harding could not know her feelings, and he had reason to doubt her truth; but, though he could not tell what it was, there was something in her look and manner as she met him which made him forget all suspicion. He took her hand in one of his, and placing the other about her waist, drew her to him, and—the love of a former time was renewed!
“We meet once more,” he whispered; it was all he could say.
“I feared we were parted forever,” she said, disengaging herself from his embrace, but still leaning on his arm.
“I thought you had forgotten me,” continued Harding.
“I am not sure but I ought to have done so,” she replied, with a smile which revealed how little she meant what she said. “But how is it that you are here?”
“I had forgotten,” answered he; “I am here as an envoy from another, to ask your hand in marriage!”
“You!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him. “From whom?”
“From his highness,” answered Harding, laughingly detaining her, “Eugene Raoul, Count De Marsiac!”
She gazed at him in surprise for a few moments; and then, catching the light of his smile, folded her hands upon his shoulder, looked archly into his eyes and said—