She gave a little gasp of relief. "I was so afraid. I thought they suspected. It's madness our meeting like this."
"Then I pray God I shall never be sane," I said, with a low, reckless laugh. "Oh, Mercia,—my sweet, white, wonderful Mercia,—do you think life has anything for me that I wouldn't throw away with both hands for the sake of seeing you!"
The passion in my voice brought a faint tinge of colour into her face. She leaned against the side of the mill and put up her hands with a little pleading gesture.
"Ah, don't, don't!" she whispered.
I shook my head, smiling down at her tenderly. "Anything else, Mercia mine," I said; "but you might as well tell the sun not to shine as tell me not to love you."
I tried to take her hand, but she wrenched herself free.
"You mustn't say these things to me," she cried, half sobbing. "Isn't it enough that I should have tried to save you? Are you quite merciless? Oh, go, while there's yet time. Go out of my life, and let me forget you."
"I won't," I said obstinately. "I love you with every beat of my heart, Mercia, and all the murdering half-castes in South America shan't come between us."
She looked at me piteously. "Do you know what you are saying? Don't you understand how impossible it is that the daughter of Manuel Solano can ever be anything to you?"
"No," I said stoutly, "I don't. I've already sworn to you that I had no hand in your father's death, and you believe me—I know that you believe me."