"Oh, yes; it shall come right. Confess now, Odalite. When your boy lover had been gone away so long that you had almost forgotten him, this foreign officer comes along and fascinates you with his splendor, as the rattlesnake fascinates the humming bird, and you were drawn in. Now, however, that I have come back, the old-time love has revived, and you are sorry that you mistook your heart and engaged yourself to this brilliant stranger. Is it not so? Tell me, Odalite. If it is so--as I feel sure it must be--then I will put in my prior claim and stop the marriage, send the interloping foreigner back to his own country, and you and I will marry and go to housekeeping at Greenbushes, according to our lifelong engagement. That is, if the old love has revived, as of course it has," he concluded, looking eagerly in her face. She did not answer him. She could not. Was the old, true love revived, indeed? No! for the sweet, sacred love of childhood had never died, never failed, but burned now a pure fire that wasted her life. Was she sorry that she had engaged herself to that man? So sorry, at least, stern necessity had compelled her to do so, that now death would have been a welcome release. But she could not tell Leonidas this. He waited for her answer for a few moments, and then continued: "Does that grave silence give consent, my Odalite? You are sorry? While your sailor sweetheart was so far off and so long away that you had almost forgotten what he looked like, you let your fancy be taken by this fine foreigner, with his fine social position and his wealth. But now your sailor lad has come home again, and you see him, and you know whom it is you really love, you are sorry for what you were misled into doing. But don't cry any more. You shall not be compelled to marry that man, since you do not wish to, even though you did accept him of your own free will! for you had no right to accept him, you know; you were engaged to me. But to think that he has kissed you!" exclaimed the youth, with a jealous pang, as he remembered the usual manner of sealing such an acceptance. "Oh, no, no, Le! He has never kissed me--never, never kissed me--and he never shall until I cease to be myself and become his property, a body without a soul, which cannot help itself," said Odalite, with a woeful, wintry smile of triumph and defiance breaking through the cold rain of her tears. "You--you--you have never let him kiss you--not even when you accepted him!" exclaimed Le, in pleased surprise. "No; not then; nor ever! No; nor ever shall, until I become his slave in marriage!" exclaimed the girl, with a dangerous sparkle in her eyes.