"None of my family have ever taken the vow," she said proudly; "it has been part of the code handed down from our Norman ancestor, who won his principality by bearding the Pope. If we had had a few cardinals in the family, we should not have been as poor as we are now." "Poor?" he said, the word arresting him. "I shall not always be poor in these fighting days. Each of our captains will have a thousand pounds out of the three prizes we burnt at the Nile, not to mention the prizes we saved; and even I shall have----" "Oh no," she said sadly, "I was not thinking of that. I would marry you if I could love you, W-Will, if you had not a _carlin_ but your pay, and had to live when you were on shore in the tower, which is about all of the Favara we inhabit. You would have to live on oranges and polenta and Indian figs, and perhaps we could buy a little macaroni sometimes," she added, forcing a smile. "We are so poor, we two, the last of the House of Favara, that we have to let our domain to a farmer for orange and lemon growing, and let him use part of our palace for his business. We could not live if we were not in the household of the Queen. It is not poverty that prevents." "Then what is it, dear?" asked Will. She still let him kiss her. "Oh, just that I cannot ever marry you, because I cannot ever love you, as I know Englishwomen love their husbands." "I will marry you, and gladly, even thus." "No, W-Will, I could not marry you--I cannot even think of it. It is quite impossible. All I can be to you is your very dearest friend." "May I not try to win you from your decision?" "Oh yes," she said, "if you have any mercy on me, try, and I will pray the Mother of God that you may prevail: but alas! it is not, is not, possible." "May I kiss you when we are like this?" A ghost of a smile flitted across his face as he caught sight of himself in a mirror which had a Chinese landscape painted on it. His smile bore fruit: it brought her back to herself. She laughed--"Yes, dear W-Will; kiss me, woo me your very best way, and win me--do!" Will was very thankful for that laugh, that sudden return to her self-possession and everyday voice. To a man of his sensitive temperament it is not easy to act on such a permission from a woman highly strung; he feels that he is taking advantage of her weakness--that he is acting on a submission she would not have made in calmer moments. But if she gives the same permission when she is calmed down, and with a little laugh, he feels that he is playing fair. CHAPTER XVI.--What the Admiral wrote in his Journal about Love.