“You, too, are not guiltless of robbery.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, indignantly drawing herself up.
Oh, how magnificent she looked! I wanted to throw myself at her feet and confess everything, but I did not—then.
“You have stolen my heart, Mademoiselle.”
“And you came to look for it in my jewel-case?” She laughed somewhat contemptuously.
“I have come for yours in exchange,” said I; although I had a neat opening in her question, I judged it best to let it pass.
“Monsieur!”
“I am a poor sailor, Mademoiselle, but I have sought you throughout the land. I babbled everywhere as I ran of blue eyes, dark hair, a witching face. I found you—nowhere!”
There was a ring of truth in these words—although of course it did not explain my presence there—that I believe influenced her.
“’Tis impossible, Monsieur—” she began at last.