This was coming to grips at last. Battle was joined, and she was glad to have it so. Anything were better than his love-making. "Cousin," she said, clenching her hand on the table. "I am no milk and water maid for your ravishing. I tell you again that there is no power under heaven will make me marry you." He leaned back in his chair, nonchalent, keenly watching her. "Bethink you of your fair name, Dominica," he said gently. "I care nothing for it." "No?" He smiled. "Brave words, but you have not thought on it yet, sweet cousin. You show me no mercy, no kindness. Should I then show you any?" "I make no doubt you would not," she said swiftly. "But if you think to wring consent to marriage out of me by such means, you are mistaken, and have not my measure." He lifted the wine-cup to his lips, sipped, and held it still, his elbow on the arm of his chair. "I can ruin you, my dear," he said. "If you go from here unwed you can never show your face abroad again." "Do you not think, señor, that if I had to choose between marriage with such as you and a cloister I would not choose the cloister?" It was plain that he had not thought of that. He set the cup down with a snap, staring at her from under suddenly frowning brows. After a moment he hitched up his shoulder in the way he had, and gave a short laugh. "Idle words!" "Try me, and you will see, señor." He poured more wine, but he did not drink. "You think I do not know what heretical notions you hide," he taunted her. She kept her countenance. "All that is past. I am a true daughter of the Church, nor could you prove me other. The Church would receive me, and my wealth too, be you very sure." "You do not know what you say." He drank deep, and set the cup down. "This is to work on me, no more." "You live in a fool's paradise, cousin. There are no lengths to which I would not go for the purpose of frustrating your foul designs. Why, what does the world hold for me that I should cling to it? I am alone, amongst enemies, for such you and my aunt have shown yourselves to be." "There is El Beauvallet," he said, and looked intently to see whether she would change colour. She cast up her eyes, but answered patiently. "I humour your whims, cousin. If the Chevalier de Guise were El Beauvallet, and my lover, what would be left to me now but a cloister?" He sneered at that. "Oh, methought he could burst all bars and bolts, this famous pirate!" "I suppose you thought so indeed, cousin, since you fled Madrid in such haste," she said tartly. He showed his teeth a moment. "Do you imagine these holiday terms serve you, señorita? I would be gentle with you, but you drive me to harsh measures. You are besotted; you do not know in how dire a state you stand. The hour grows late already, my cousin, and there is only Luis in the house. I warrant you he will not hear a cry for help."