He wrote that very day to Madrid, asking the hand of his daughter from the wealthy Jewish banker, and pleading as hard as though he were some poor outcast, with never a roof to his head, begging for the favor of a royal maiden's love. Cristalar was overjoyed at knowing at last where to find the man he owed health and fortune to, and, instead of a letter, he sent a telegram to say he would be in Frankfort in a week.
Henry took the telegram to the convent; Maheleth turned very pale as she read it.
“It is all right, surely, darling, is it not?” asked Holcombe.
“I have never seen him since the eve of my baptism.”
“And,” interrupted the young man, “please God, you will see him again the eve of our marriage.”
She hid her face in her hands. “God grant it!” she murmured, under her breath.
Ephraim Cristalar, for he called himself by his own name now, went to the hotel where Holcombe used to live, and inquired for the young Englishman. He had not long to wait.
“Mr. Holcombe!” he exclaimed, as he caught him in his arms, “I cannot speak to you—you are master of all I am and have; can you but forgive me, say?”
“My friend and father!” replied Holcombe, “you must not give way like this! I only asked you a simple question, a great favor, it is true, but that is all we have to speak of.”
“Oh! I know better than that, Henry. What have you to ask of me, when all I have is yours?”