“Ysabel!”
“Dear papa,—I mean I cannot—” and the little lady burst into tears.
“Ysabel,—hear me—I have said thou shalt become the bride of the Marquis of Talavera. What I say I never unsay—that thou knowest. Two weeks from this. The day thou art seventeen—is the day decided upon. It must, it shall be so! Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Belle?”
The girl answered not a word but her eye lit up and her little mouth was tightly compressed. Every line of her statue-like form expressed firmness and resolution.
“Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Ysabel?” again demanded the Count.
“Thou hast ever been an indulgent father to me, never hast thou crossed my slightest wish, and now, father, I must say firmly no! I never can become the bride of him thou namest.”
“Girl! thou shalt not even be consulted. Thou hast had thine own way seventeen years, now I will have mine. Thou shalt wed the Talavera if I have to drag thee to the altar. Nay, no fawning.” The girl had twined her soft round arms about her father’s neck—her eyes looked beseechingly into his. But he pushed her from him, saying—“Go to thy room, Ysabel, and there remain until thy reason comes to thee. Dost thou hear me?”
The Spaniard strode from the room, and the weeping lady sought, with a heavy heart, her own turret.
It was the first time her father had been unkind to her, and she threw herself down, on a low couch, in all that utter hopelessness of grief youth alone can feel. It was her first sorrow.
There came a soft rap at the door,—but she heeded it not;—and not until a hand, soft as woman’s, held her own,—and a voice, whose deep, low tones were breathing music, whispered in her ear, did she know her father’s handsome page was kneeling by her.