The Lady Margaret had risen, and with tears in her eyes now faced him. "Why dost thou persecute me thus?" she said, as though in despair. "Thou knowest I will never willingly be thy bride; there are many fair ladies in England. Why wilt thou persist in thy mad pursuit of me, when thou knowest I do not love thee?"
My lord kept his seat, the smile still upon his face.
"If thou for any reason dost look into thy mirror, thou needst wonder no further."
"I seek not for compliments," she answered impatiently. "I would know the cause of thy unreasonable conduct."
"Thou seekest for a reason, behold thou hast it. Margaret, I have spent a great treasure; have slain two gallant gentlemen; have left the luxuries and pleasures of my own country to become a wanderer in a strange land; have traversed countless leagues of trackless ocean and boundless forest, my very life at the mercy of these roving savages. Have imperiled all, Margaret—wealth, position, title, reputation, and for what?"
"Yes, for what?" she answered, her head held proudly erect. "It has been worse than wasted."
"'Tis for this," he cried, and he advanced a step nearer to her—"because I love thee."
My lady's face had grown scornful, her eyes flashed, for she came of a noble line, and when once aroused, the Carroll blood could be hot and fierce.
"Thou hadst best save thy breath," she answered contemptuously. "Thou art like a child, that frets and whimpers for the moon."
"Art thou made of stone?" he cried, "that naught can touch thy cold heart? What more wouldst thou have. I have dared all, endured all, for thy sake, and yet thou still dost frown—hast thou no smile?"