With impotent rage, with turmoil of heart and torment of conscience, Adrian did think it over. All that night he thought, tossing on his rat-haunted pallet, while without the snow whirled and the wind beat. If he did not marry Elsa, his father would, and there could be no doubt as to which of these alternatives would be best and happiest for her. Elsa married to that wicked, cynical, devil-possessed, battered, fortune-hunting adventurer with a nameless past! This must be prevented at any cost. With his father her lot _must_ be a hell; with himself—after a period of storm and doubt perhaps—it could scarcely be other than happy, for was he not young, handsome, sympathetic, and—devoted? Ah! there was the real point. He loved this lady with all the earnestness of which his nature was capable, and the thought of her passing into the possession of another man gave him the acutest anguish. That the man should be Foy, his half-brother, was bad enough; that it should be Ramiro, his father, was insupportable. At breakfast the following morning, when Elsa did not appear, the pair met. “You look pale, Adrian,” said his father presently. “I fear that this wild weather kept you awake last night, as it did me, although at your age I have slept through the roar of a battle. Well, have you thought over our conversation? I do not wish to trouble you with these incessant family matters, but times presses, and it is necessary to decide.” Adrian looked out of the lattice at the snow, which fell and fell without pause. Then he turned and said: “Yes. Of the two it is best that she should marry me, though I think that such a crime will bring its own reward.” “Wise young man,” answered his father. “Under all your cloakings of vagary I observe that you have a foundation of common-sense, just as the giddiest weathercock is bedded on a stone. As for the reward, considered properly it seems to be one upon which I can heartily congratulate you.” “Peace to that talk,” said Adrian, angrily; “you forget that there are two parties to such a contract; her consent must be gained, and I will not ask it.” “No? Then I will; a few arguments occur to me. Now look here, friend, we have struck a bargain, and you will be so good as to keep it or to take the consequences—oh! never mind what they are. I will bring this lady to the altar—or, rather, to that table, and you will marry her, after which you can settle matters just exactly as you please; live with her as your wife, or make your bow and walk away, which, I care nothing so long as you are married. Now I am weary of all this talk, so be so good as to leave me in peace on the subject.” Adrian looked at him, opened his lips to speak, then changed his mind and marched out of the house into the blinding snow. “Thank Heaven he is gone at last!” reflected his father, and called for Hague Simon, with whom he held a long and careful interview. “You understand?” he ended.