“Tell me not of my triumphs,” said she, passionately: “they were my shame! You corrupted me, by trifling with my ignorance of the world. I did not know then, as now I know, what were the prizes of that ambition I cherished! But _you_ knew them; _you_ speculated on them, as now you speculate upon others. Ay, blush for it; let your cheek glow, and sear your cold heart for the infamy! The coroneted duchess would have been a costlier merchandise than the wreathed dancer! Oh, shame upon you! shame upon you! Could you not be satisfied with your gambler's cruelty, and ruin those who have manhood's courage to sustain defeat, but that you should make your victim a poor, weak, motherless girl, whose unprotected life might have evoked even _your_ pity?” “I will supplicate no longer; upon you be it if the alternative be heavy. Hear me, young lady; it is by your father's consent--nay, more, at his desire--that I make you the proffer of my name and rank. He is in my power,--not his fortune nor his future prospects, but his very life is in my hands. You shudder at having been a dancer; think of what you may be,--the daughter of a forçat, a galley-slave! If these be idle threats, ask himself; he will tell you if I speak truly. It is my ambition that you should share my title and my fortune. I mean to make your position one that the proudest would envy; reject my offer if you will, but never reproach me with what your own blind folly has accomplished.” Maritaña stood with clasped hands, and eyes wildly staring on vacancy, as Linton, in a voice broken with passion, uttered these words,-- “I will not press you now, Maritaña; you shall have to-night to think over all I have said; to-morrow you will give me your answer.” “To-morrow?” muttered she, after him. “Who is there?” said Linton, as a low, faint knock was heard at the door. It was repeated, and Linton approached and opened the door. A slight gesture of the hand was all that he could perceive in the half-light; but he understood it, and passed out, closing the door noiselessly behind him. “Well?” said Rica, as he grasped the other's arm; “well?” “Well?” echoed Linton, peevishly. “She is in her most insolent of moods, and affects to think that all the splendor I have offered her is but the twin of the mock magnificence of the stage. She is a fool, but she'll think better of it, or she must be taught to do so.” Rica sighed heavily, but made no answer; at last he said,-- “It is over with the Duke, and he bears it well.” “Good blood always does,” said Linton. “Your men of birth have a lively sense of how little they have done for their estates, and therefore part with them with a proportionate degree of indifference. Where is he?” “Writing letters in the boudoir off the drawing-room. You must see him, and ask when the necessary papers can be signed and exchanged.”