With this thought Guy, with light steps, crosses the room and locks the door. He will have five minutes for explanation—for love! Crushed by grief, the girl hears him not, but at the sound of clicking lock starts to her feet, and drawing her fair body up, puts haughty nose into air and remarks in cutting voice, though her white hands tremble and clench themselves: “Finishing the two months’ carouse with which you christened your new commission, Major Guido Amati de Medina?” then jeers in sneering tone: “Probably you’ll not grace your commission long. Desertion from your post at Middelburg in the face of the enemy, by which it is now attacked, without leave of absence—” “Without leave of absence,” interjects Chester, “why do you think that?” “I know it! I’ve had word from the Lord de Beauvois, Governor of Middelburg, that no leave of absence shall be granted to Major Guido Amati.” “Then it’s to your influence,” mutters Guy, “the influence of the woman I once thought loved me, that Beauvois has constantly kept me within garrison and prevented me from coming where my heart called me. You feared my presence by your side in Brussels.” “Only after word was brought to me that you had forgotten me.” “It was a lie.” “A lie?” “Yes, a lie; the same as all the other reports circulated about me, the same as that base one told you two minutes ago—that I was a drunken debauchee, too drunk to do anything you asked me. Do I look drunk now?” She gazes at him. His handsome face bears no signs of dissipation. His eyes blazing, indignant, fiery but loving, gaze at her. He stands haughty and erect, and she cries: “No, no, you are fit to do any woman’s bidding.” “Then if I’m sober now, when he said I was drunk, I was sober in Middelburg when they told you I was a dissipated roué. It was a lie, a lie furnished by some rival. Who is my rival? Is it Noircarmes?” and he strides up to her. “Tell me, have you had word of love with him, with my ring on your finger?” Then looking down, he starts and sighs: “Good God! it is not there!” next bursts out at her: “By this sign I am truer than you!” And Guy, holding the blazing ruby up before her, she droops her eyes but looks so infinitely lovely that he could crush her to his breast. These orbs that sink before his, yet gaze on him, are not the eyes of the picture of the Madonna he has gazed upon, or of the miniature by which he has tried to assuage his hungry heart these many months, but passionate dazzling, real eyes—the eyes of Hermoine de Alva. It is not her placid form upon the canvas he is gazing on, but the live loveliness of real flesh and blood and vivacious womanhood. “I am the judge now, not you!” he cries. “Answer!” for she is blushing and paling and fluttering like a guilty one: “Forgive me!” But knight of jealous heart answers “No!” And princess of love and grace cries: “You shall!” “And why?”