firmly--"believe me thus false and perjured, and forget me, Senor
Stanley; crush even my memory from thy heart, and give not a thought
to one so worthless! Mystery as there was around me when we first met,
there is a double veil around me now, which I may not lift even to
clear myself with thee. Turn thy love into the scorn which my perjury
deserves, and leave me."

"I will not!" burst impetuously from Arthur, as he suddenly flung
himself at her feet. "Marie, I will not leave thee thus; say but that
some unforeseen circumstances, not thine own will, made thee the
wife of this proud Spaniard; say but that neither thy will nor thy
affections were consulted, that no word of thine could give him hope
he was beloved--that thou lovest me still; say but this, and I will
bless thee!"

"Ask it not, Senor Stanley. The duty of a wife would be of itself
sufficient to forbid such words; with me gratitude and reverence
render that duty more sacred still. Wouldst thou indeed sink me so low
as, even as a wife, to cease to respect me? Rise, Senor Stanley! such
posture is unsuited to thee or me; rise, and leave me; we must never
meet alone again."

Almost overpowered with contending emotions, as he was, there was
a dignity, the dignity of truth in that brief appeal, which Arthur
vainly struggled to resist. She had not attempted a single word of
exoneration, and yet his reproaches rushed back into his own heart as
cruel and unjust, and answer he had none. He rose mechanically, and
as he turned aside to conceal the weakness, a deep and fearful
imprecation suddenly broke from him; and raising her head, Marie
beheld her husband.