grace. The wine, the heavy perfume of the lamp, and the beauty of
her played havoc among them with his senses, so that he forgot
for the moment his Castilian lineage and clean Christian blood,
forgot that she derived from the accursed race of the Crucifiers.
All that he remembered was that she was the loveliest woman in
Seville, daughter to the wealthiest man, and in that hour of
weakness he decided to convert into reality that which had
hitherto been no more than an infamous presence. He would loyally
fulfil the false, disloyal promises he had made. He would take
her to wife. It was a sacrifice which her beauty and her wealth
should make worth while. Upon that impulse he spoke now,
abruptly:

"Isabella, when will you marry me?"

She stood before him, looking down into his weak, handsome face,
her fingers interlacing his own. She merely smiled. The question
did not greatly move her. Not knowing him for the scoundrel that
he was, guessing nothing of the present perturbation of his
senses, she found it very natural that he should ask her to
appoint the day.

"It is a question you must ask my father," she answered him.

"I will," said he, "to-morrow, on his return." And he drew her
down beside him.

But that father was nearer than either of them dreamed. At that
very moment the soft thud of the closing housedoor sounded
through the house. It brought her sharply to her feet, and loose