“Well, anyway, you have the blood of the grandees of Spain, and as such your family is equal to mine,” murmurs the girl, a curious emphasis on the last remark. “As such, of course, you may sit by my side,” and the young lady sinking upon a Turkish sofa, a dream of vivacious grace, motions Guy to the familiarity of equal social station. As she looks on the Englishman a great wave of color flies over Hermoine de Alva’s face, and in response Chester’s heart gives a big jump or two as he sees what must have been the drift of the girl’s mind. “I am glad that you know so much about me,” he says, laughingly, then goes on grimly: “Glad that what you have learned has not displeased you.” “Oh, I don’t know altogether that,” remarks the young lady; then she says, archness in her tone, but a quiver on her lip: “It was also whispered that Captain Guido Amati was a very wild young man. I hope that Major Guido Amati will be more circumspect. But still, they said you were the bravest officer in the army.” And the girl looks at him joyously, radiantly, proudly. She has apparently been conjuring up some dream, some vision of her imagination, the center of which has always been Guido Amati; it brings a light into her eyes that adds even to her beauty, for at times were it not for womanly graces, vivacity and emotion, her brilliant intellect would, perchance, give too great coldness to Hermoine de Alva’s exquisite face. But, fired by the latent romance of her nature, her delicate face is as inspired—it would put glow into a saint: but with a sailor—. And what she says gives golden opportunity. She has held up the ruby ring and whispered, “You returned this to me?” “Only that I might see you again,” and Guy is seated beside her. “Then if you wish to see me once more, take the ruby from me—quick!” “Never!” “Never?” “Never, unless on your finger, you wear this, one of my spoils of Hispaniola.” And the Englishman has taken from a chain about his neck a ring bearing a single brilliant. “Oh, Santos! What are you doing?” falters the girl. He has got possession of her fair hand now, and her eyes look into his for one great glance, then turn from him, and droop; their long lashed lids falling upon flaming cheeks. The next instant the diamond sparkles on the taper finger and Hermoine de Alva, the daughter of Spain’s Viceroy is only woman—loving woman—before this man, who has not wooed her heart, but has seized it. “Take the ruby—now you’ve given me the diamond,” she murmurs. “You—you know what this means?” “Please God, I do! You are my plighted bride. Mine—mine now forever!” And his audacious lips give lover’s greeting, not as the night before, the kiss of hasty mistletoe effect, but the long rapture of clinging hearts. “Beware! I—I am the Viceroy’s daughter,” murmurs the lady. She hangs her head, then suddenly raises her eyes to his and goes on firmly, distinctly: “My Guido, you are audacious!”