frown from her brow, quenched the baleful fire of her eyes, and left
nothing visible but the pale determination that made her beautiful face
more eloquent than her words.

"Manuel, in a week I leave the island."

"Alone, Pauline?"

"No, not alone."

A moment they looked into each other's eyes, each endeavoring to read
the other. Manuel saw some indomitable purpose, bent on conquering all
obstacles. Pauline saw doubt, desire, and hope; knew that a word would
bring the ally she needed; and, with a courage as native to her as her
pride, resolved to utter it.

Seating herself, she beckoned her companion to assume the place beside
her, but for the first time he hesitated. Something in the unnatural
calmness of her manner troubled him, for his southern temperament was
alive to influences whose presence would have been unfelt by one less
sensitive. He took the cushion at her feet, saying, half tenderly, half
reproachfully, "Let me keep my old place till I know in what character I
am to fill the new. The man you trusted has deserted you; the boy you
pitied will prove loyal. Try him, Pauline."

"I will."

And with the bitter smile unchanged upon her lips, the low voice
unshaken in its tones, the deep eyes unwavering in their gaze, Pauline
went on: