Occasionally the vain old man, forgetful that his strength and skill were departing, would invite Paul to a fencing-bout; if defeated, he grew angry; but when Paul, in the exercise of a littlefinesse, permitted himself to be worsted, then Lambro, suspecting the trick played upon him, grew more angry still; so that there was no pleasing him. In short, he was a somewhat trying individual to live with, and Paul was never sorry when he saw him setting off for a long tramp by the shore or through the woods, attended by his twelve mastiffs, brutes big and ferocious, but esteemed by Paul because they were such, since they would prove excellent auxiliaries against any foe who should approach the castle with intent to carry off Barbara, and that such abduction might be attempted was a fear ever present to his mind.
Indeed, it was quite within the range of probability that any day a serious fray might occur, for heedless as to what the Austrian law might be in the matter of maidens who escaped from convents, Paul was determined that Barbara should not be surrendered to the authorities without opposition on his part; while Lambro, though disposed to look upon the fair fugitive somewhat in the light of an encumbrance, was nevertheless fierce in declaring, with a fine scorn of consequences, that he would shoot the first gendarme who should attempt to crosshisthreshold; and Paul had little doubt that the fiery old Klepht would keep his word.
Still, this was not quite the sort of recreation that Paul wanted.
"Have you no books here?" he asked of Lambro one day.
"Would you turn caloyer or papa? No? Then, what can you want with books?"
"Your classic ancestors would not have asked that question. To read, of course."
"Bah! the best use you can put books to is to twistthem into cartridges. That's what we did with them in the war." In Lambro's opinion there had only been one war worthy of the name. "Did you ever hear of the siege of ——?"
"But as to the books now?" gently murmured Paul, who did not wish to hear anything about the siege of ——.
"Books? Yes, there are some here in the topmost room of the castle; but you cannot get at them, for that room is the Master's study; and on his departure he always locks the door, and takes the key with him."
Paul, with his head full of suspicion against the Master, could discern nothing but a sinister caution in his practice of keeping the study-door locked during his absence. Accordingly on the following day when Lambro was out of the way, and Jacintha occupied with her patient, Paul ascended the staircase leading to the upper portion of the tower. On the topmost landing of all he came upon a stout door of oak securely locked. This without doubt was the entrance of the study spoken of by Lambro. A pendant on the other side of the key-hole prevented Paul from obtaining the slightest glimpse of the interior.
Not only had the Master left this door locked, but he had likewise taken precautions to prevent any one during his absence from entering without his knowledge, for the hinges of the door were sealed with violet-colored wax bearing the impress of a paschal lamb.
The care thus taken to screen the room from espionage increased Paul's suspicions. Then he turned away, becoming suddenly conscious that to pry thus upon the affairs of a stranger was conduct unworthy of a soldier and a gentleman; and yet a secret voice seemed to whisper that he was justified in his proceeding, when he recalled Jacintha's strange remark that the return of the Master threatened Barbara's safety.
"Jacintha," said he, when next he saw that person, "what secret is contained in that locked room at the topof the tower, for," he added, proceeding beyond his knowledge, "I am convinced that there is some mystery connected with it."
That he was correct in his surmise was sufficiently evinced by the look of fear that came over Jacintha's face.
"You must ask Lambro."
"He will not tell me."
"And I dare not."
"Why?"
"Lambro would kill me if I should reveal the secret. You yourself heard his threat. I have taken a solemn oath upon the Holy Sacrament itself to preserve silence. Do not speak of this matter again, I pray you," she continued, with pain in her voice, "for, indeed, Captain Cressingham, it is no concern of yours."
And then, as if desirous of reverting to a more pleasing topic, she added,—
"I have good news for you. The signorina is now strong enough to rise and be dressed. To-morrow you shall see her."
This intelligence was more acceptable to Paul than the baton of a general. He had very little sleep that night for thinking of Barbara.
Next day at noon, Barbara having been dressed by Jacintha, was assisted by the same faithful attendant to an adjoining sitting-room, and comfortably installed in a big arm-chair placed beside an open casement which commanded a view of the sea.
How quick was the turn of her head towards the door when Paul's step sounded there! How bright her smile as she offered him her slender hand. How sweet the color that played over her cheek while she thanked him for the presents that he had sent up to her! A white rose graced her dusky hair, the flower being, as Paul noticed with secret pleasure, his gift of the previous day.
Jacintha had withdrawn on Paul's entrance. Wisecreature, Jacintha! It is not every woman who will recognize herself asde tropwhen youth and maiden meet.
"I am glad to see you recovering, signorina."
"I am still very weak. I tremble to think what would have become of me had I lain down in that wood. The fever would certainly have carried me off. I owe my life to you."
"No—to Jacintha."
"And to Jacintha, who will not take any reward from me."
After this there was a silence. Paul found his usual flow of language gone. He longed to be brilliant; he was conscious of seeming stupid.
"It is six weeks since our meeting in the woods," he observed, for want of a better remark.
"And you were going to Sebenico, then. Have you remained at Castel Nuovo all this time on my account?"
"I desire to keep my promise of seeing you safely to Zara."
Barbara murmured her gratitude, adding,—
"But am I not putting you to great inconvenience?"
"No, signorina, no. These are my holidays. I am on a long furlough. My time is my own, or rather it is at your disposal."
Barbara's eyes drooped beneath Paul's gaze. Why should this handsome young captain interest himself so on her behalf?
"Jacintha tells me that you have never quitted the vicinity of the castle."
"True. It has been my desire to guard against a surprise on the part of your pursuers."
Barbara's face lost its bright expression for a moment.
"My pursuers!" she murmured. "My pursuers! The thought of them haunted me while I lay ill. I dreaded lest I should be carried off in my helpless state. But as six weeks have elapsed I think I may regard the pursuit—ifpursuit there were—as over. But tell me, Captain Cressingham,"—how prettily the name fell from her lips!—"what would you have done if my pursuers had appeared?"
"Fought," replied Paul laconically.
"But supposing they had been a dozen in number?"
"No matter. Lambro loves a fight, so do I. Castel Nuovo was built to stand a siege. The door is of massive oak; the lower windows are barred; there are abundant loopholes convenient for taking shots at the enemy. And besides there are the twelve mastiffs, each of which is capable of tackling a man. Trust us, signorina, we should have made a good defence."
It was pleasant to be near such towers of strength as Paul and Lambro, who appeared to regard Austrian gendarmerie with contempt. Then her pleasure became lost in surprise. Was this Englishman really willing to undergo such perils on her behalf? Ay, those, and much more, Barbara, to gain your smiles.
"I am fortunate in my friends," she said, "but rather than expose them to such hazard I think I should prefer to give myself up."
She was a sweet and interesting patient, and the charm of her face and figure was enhanced by the toilette in which Jacintha had arrayed her,—a dress all soft and white and foamy with silk muslin. A silver rope girdle was tied at one side and fell in two long, graceful tassels. Delicate antique lace fringed the slender wrists. Paul's quick eye observed that a small portion of the lace was torn off from the right sleeve. He wondered why the defect had not been repaired. A trifling circumstance, but one destined to recur with peculiar force at a later date.
This was not the costume she had worn on the night of her first meeting with him. Whence, then, did it come? Barbara seemed to divine his thoughts.
"I see you are observing my dress," she remarked. "It is a gift from Jacintha, drawn from an old chest in her wardrobe. It might have been expressly made for me, for it fits to a nicety without requiring the least alteration. Made for another, and yet suiting me to perfection. Is not that a singular coincidence?"
The fit of the dress did not strike Paul so much as the costliness of the material. He could not account for Jacintha's possession of such attire except on the supposition that it formed part of the flotsam and jetsam which supplied Lambro with his finery.
Again Barbara seemed to read his thoughts.
"No, it is not a gift of the sea; Jacintha assured me of that; otherwise I would not wear it. I have no liking for the clothing of the drowned." And then displaying a pair of pretty satin shoes, she added: "And these, too, are Jacintha's gift, and they fit as if my feet had been measured for them."
She turned to the open casement and surveyed the scene without.
"Ah! if I could but get into the air outside I should recover the sooner."
"Then come down to-morrow, and sit outside on the terrace."
"I am too weak to walk."
"No matter. I will carry you," replied Paul, boldly.
"I shall have to get Jacintha's leave first," said Barbara, half-pleased, half-reluctant. "Jacintha is an ideal nurse. She will have her commands obeyed, and will not yield to the whims of her patient."
When Jacintha appeared, her consent was readily obtained, and as she averred that Barbara had talked enough for one day, Paul was compelled to take his leave.
He spent the rest of the day in recalling Barbara's words. The interview, though delightful, contained one element of disappointment: Barbara had said nothing asto her previous history. Paul had hesitated to question her on the matter, leaving her to take the initiative. Time would doubtless bring increasing confidence on her part.
On the following day he redeemed his promise of carrying her into the open air. An exquisite sense of pleasure filled him as he felt the clasp of Barbara's arm around his neck and noted the sweet color that mantled her cheek. From her chamber he bore her down the staircase and out to a dismantled marble terrace, where he seated her in a lounge, which had been placed there by Jacintha. Above her rose a stately terebinth, whose light-green foliage, crimsoned with clusters of delicate flowers, cast a circle of shade around.
It was the height of summer, and the day, though hot, was not oppressive; the atmosphere being tempered by the air flowing from the Dalmatian highlands that rose behind them, peak above peak, in dark wooded glory.
Facing them was the smooth Adriatic almost as blue as the heaven it reflected. Far off in the summer haze picturesque feluccas, with their white lateen sails, glided to and fro with slow dream-like motion.
Sea, sky, and mountains combined to form a scene of enchanting beauty, rendered still more enchanting to Paul by the presence of Barbara, to whom Jacintha had imparted an additional charm by adorning her with the gracefulpezzotto, or muslin scarf, which, pinned on the head and falling over the arms and shoulders, permitted the beautiful face and hair of the wearer to be seen through it.
"Have you ever noticed, Captain Cressingham, how trifles annoy when one is in a state of illness? And I am annoyed by a trifle, one so absurd that I feel ashamed to mention it."
Paul urged her, nevertheless, to describe the annoyance.
"What torments me is a piece of sealing-wax on a panel in my bedroom. Reposing the other night, with my eyesturned towards it, I was seized by a singular fancy. The wax seemed to be receding through the wall, drawing me after it. Reason told me that this could not be so, that the wax was immovably fixed to the panel, and that I was in bed; yet all the same, there was the circle of wax gliding onward with never-ending motion through the realm of air, and myself floating along in its wake like a disembodied spirit. This sensation occurs every night. My mind is kept perpetually on the rack following that piece of wax through the infinity of space, ever lured onward by the hope of arriving at some goal. But that goal perpetually evades me, and therein is the torment."
"Having had the malaria myself," observed Paul, "I can testify that such queer notions do occur. What is the color of this wax?" he added, having little doubt as to what the answer would be.
"It is of a violet hue, and bears the impress of a lamb carrying a banner. I cannot go back to that chamber again," continued Barbara, "or I shall be driven mad, for the annoyance is depriving me of all sleep. I must change my room, even though my good nurse is opposed to it."
But Jacintha did not offer any opposition when Paul made known her patient's desire for a different sleeping-room; without any demur she immediately set about preparing another chamber.
That same night, when all was still in the castle, Paul, taking a revolver and a lamp, sought the room vacated by Barbara. He quickly discovered the piece of stamped wax, and saw that it corresponded precisely with the seal upon the door of the mysterious study.
Extinguishing his lamp, he sat down on a chair beside the panel, determined to watch there during the night to ascertain, if possible, whether there was any ground for Barbara's strange fancy.
It was a long and dreary vigil, and when the gray lightof dawn stole in through the casement, and nothing had occurred to excite suspicion, he was fain to question the wisdom of his action.
That day Paul again carried Barbara downstairs to breathe the pure air of the sunlit terrace.
"My sleep last night was sweet and sound," she remarked. "With my new bedroom, and with this glorious air, I shall soon be well again."
She looked so radiant that Paul refrained from mentioning his nocturnal vigil. Though full of indefinable suspicion himself, he had no wish to alarm her mind; and he had laid both on Lambro and Jacintha an injunction to maintain silence respecting the locked room.
Barbara's strength gradually returned. In a day or two she was able to stand, and, leaning upon Paul's arm, she walked to and fro in the immediate vicinity of the castle. These promenades were soon lengthened into rambles along the seashore or through the fragrant pine woods, Paul being her constant companion. She had taken his arm at first from weakness; she now continued to do so from habit.
As his knowledge of Barbara increased Paul discovered that she had received an extraordinary education, her course of study having been as remarkable for what it omitted as for what it contained. While knowing very little of poetry, painting, music, needle-work, and other accomplishments usually included in the feminine curriculum, she was nevertheless well versed in mathematics, logic, and "the dismal science," to wit, political economy. Classic antiquity was almost a sealed book to her, but modern history and current continental politics she had at her finger-tips, and her knowledge of royal and noble genealogies with all their ramifications might have put a herald to the blush. She could give the biographies, and the characteristic foibles, of all the leading statesmen of Europe; was mistress of several modern languages, notablyPolish or Russian, and—most puzzling circumstance of all—she was quiteau faitwith the mysteries and subtleties of Catholic theology.
As she could scarcely have passed her twentieth year, it seemed to Paul that Barbara, in view of her extensive acquirements, must have commenced her studies so soon as she had quitted her cradle.
Her intellectual training appeared more adapted to the acquirements of a ruler, a statesman, or an ambassador than to those of an ordinary young lady; and Paul puzzled himself to account for the aims of those who had directed her education, for Barbara herself volunteered no information on the matter, and still maintained an attitude of reticence as to her past life.
When, amid the most enchanting scenery to be found in Europe, and at a time when all the charms of summer are poured upon the earth, a handsome young captain is brought into companionship with a youthful woman, whose intellect charms even more than her beauty; and when the pair dwell isolated from the rest of the world with nothing to divert attention from each other, it requires no prophet to predict the result.
Barbara was now out of her convalescent stage; and, therefore, neither she nor Paul had any valid excuse for remaining longer at Castel Nuovo; nevertheless they continued to postpone indefinitely the day of departure.
Paul completely ignored the regiment at Corfu, and the good uncle, who was doubtless fuming at his nephew's protracted absence; and Barbara on her part seemed to have forgotten her pursuers from the convent, and her desire for the protection of the British flag.
Enwrapped in each other, yielding to the delicious spirit ofdolce far niente, the pair were leading an idyllian life.
To Lambro and Jacintha the scenery around was as it had always been, but to Paul and Barbara, mountains, sea, air, sky, had become steeped in hues of divine beauty; each succeeding day seemed happier than the preceding.
They entertained a dreamy notion that their life at Castel Nuovo would not last forever, but its end they put far from their thoughts. The golden present was all in all. Why anticipate pain?Vogue la galère.
Lambro offered no opposition to their stay, though the thought of the Master's return gave him some uneasiness at times, and he said as much to Jacintha.
"I wish he would come," was her reply. "I should like to see his face when he sets eyes upon the signorina."
"He'll think as we did, that she has risen from the dead," returned Lambro.
"Well, she has a protector in Captain Cressingham, who will know how to deal with the Master, should he appear."
"Humph! there'll be the devil to pay ere long," growled Lambro. That Jacintha was not married to the old Greek troubled Barbara very little, if at all. Jacintha had brought her back to life; Jacintha was as good as gold; Barbara, figuratively speaking, would have turned and rent any one who should have ventured to assail the reputation of Jacintha.
For, thanks to new influences, Barbara's character was undergoing development. The stateliness and gravity that had marked her bearing on the first night of her coming to Castel Nuovo were yielding to a more buoyant and girlish spirit.
Close to the castle a semicircle of dark rocks, with a sandy base, over which the tide flowed, formed an ideal bathing place. Every morning Barbara would seek this spot attended by Jacintha.
"Wouldn't Abbess Teresa and the nuns be scandalized if they saw me now?" she would remark as she returned to breakfast, laughing and wringing out her dark wet locks like some lovely Nereid.
She was a maiden formed for gayety. In previous days her natural disposition had evidently been kept under restraint. She was now revelling in the sunshine of a new and sweet liberty, and Jacintha could scarcely believe her own eyes, when one day, attracted by the sounds of sweet laughter and of ringing steel proceeding from an adjoiningapartment, she peeped in and discovered the cause of it all to be Barbara, who was receiving her first lesson in fencing from Paul, while Lambro looked on with sombre approval.
"What next, I wonder?" thought Jacintha.
Barbara illumined the dark and melancholy castle like a sunbeam. Even Lambro relaxed something of his moroseness in her presence, and had begun to doubt whether five hundred beshliks could procure in the mart of Janina a maiden in all respects like Barbara. She had taken to Lambro much more than Paul had, who could not overcome his secret distrust of the old Palicar.
But then Lambro was a hero in Barbara's eyes, because he had fought for the freedom of a conquered race, and she herself, as it subsequently transpired, was the daughter of a conquered race.
When the day's strolling with Paul was over, and the evening meal finished, she would invite the old Greek to fight his battles over again. Sitting on a low stool at his feet, and resting her elbows on her lap and her chin on her hands, her hair sometimes falling in dusky waves around her fair throat, she would betray such interest in Lambro's reminiscences that the foolish Paul was often moved to jealousy.
"And by deeds such as these," she murmured on one occasion, "was the freedom of Hellas won. Why should not Poland achieve what Greece has achieved?"
"So, signorina, you are of Polish blood?" smiled Paul.
"And am proud of my nationality."
"I would for your sake that your people were free."
"Theywillbe free again," she answered, a beautiful heroic look transfiguring her face with a new light. "Oh! Kosciusko," she cried, with an outburst of patriotism that quite surprised Paul, "why did you say 'Finis Poloniæ'? Becauseyousaid it, men have come to believe it. No, no, it is not true. The greenstone sceptre of Poland maylie in the treasury of the Kremlin broken in halves, but the spirit of the Polish people is not broken. Would that I had been born a man that I might shoulder musket and fight for fatherland! The Princess Radzivil fought on horseback against the Russians, and why may not I?" And then raising her wine-glass aloft, she added, "Confusion to the Czar!"
"Amen," said Lambro, responsive to the toast. "We had to assassinate old Capo d'Istria because he was too much under Russian influence. Ah! how we danced the Romaïka the night he died!"
This remark of Lambro created a diversion, for Barbara, who had never seen the Greek national dance, asked him to describe it.
The old Palicar did more than describe,—he acted it. Kicking his embroidered slippers into the air he went through all the flings and evolutions of the Romaïka with an agility surprising for one so aged, at the same time chanting an appropriate ballad.
"Ah! who could leap higher than Lambro in his youth?" he cried, when he had finished his performance.
Barbara thanked him, and observed, with a pretty air of command, that as Lambro had done something to entertain them it was now Paul's turn to do the like.
And Paul began by singing the first song that entered his head and that happened to be "The Mistletoe Bough," at that time not so hackneyed a ballad as now, and probably never before heard in the hall of a Dalmatian castle. At any rate it was new to his hearers, and Barbara in particular seemed much interested by it.
"Is there any truth in it?" she asked at its conclusion.
"Supposed to be founded on fact," returned Paul, proceeding to relate the story of the fair lady of Modena.
"Ginevra, if she had lived at Castel Nuovo," observed Barbara, "might have found a better place of concealment than an oaken chest. Now," she added, prompted by aplayful impulse, "give me a clear start of one minute, and without going outside the castle I will undertake to hide where no one shall find me."
She sprang up, and with laughing eyes and graceful step danced from the apartment.
"She is still a girl, you see," smiled Paul.
Entering into the fun of the thing they allowed a full minute to elapse, and then set off to find her.
They went through the castle from roof to basement, exploring every place capable of affording concealment. But Barbara was invisible; she had vanished as if completely melted to air.
Half-an-hour had passed in this search. Then they went again through the building loudly calling her by name, and, proclaiming themselves beaten, they invited her to come forth from her hiding place.
Their appeal met with no response. They stared dubiously at one another. The affair had begun to lose its humorous side. The death-like silence, Barbara's invisibility, the gray twilight now stealing through the castle, caused it to assume a somewhat ghostly aspect.
"She must have gone outside," said Lambro.
"She promised to keep within the building," observed Paul.
For the third time they explored the castle, ending their search on the highest landing of the staircase. Here they paused before the locked door of the mysterious study.
"She is perhaps concealed here," suggested Paul.
"Impossible," returned Lambro, pointing to the wax. "The Master's seal is unbroken."
"There is an entrance to this room leading from the chamber in which the signorina first slept," remarked Paul quietly.
This statement was pure conjecture on his part, but its truth was instantly made evident by Lambro's manner.He turned so savagely upon Jacintha that Paul thought he was going to strike her.
"So you couldn't keep your tongue quiet?"
"You err," said Paul, hastening to vindicate the woman. "Jacintha has told me nothing. It is simply a guess of mine, and—"
He broke off abruptly and placed his ear to the door.
"By heaven, there is some one in this room. I can detect a sound within. Signorina, are you here?" he cried, rapping upon the panels.
The dusk of the landing was suddenly illumined by a light that came and went in a moment. Merely a flash of summer lightning.
It was accompanied by something startling within. A faint cry of "Oh!"—plainly the voice of Barbara; a dull thud as of the fall of a human body, and then a significant stillness.
With a soldier's promptitude Paul flung himself against the door, bruising his shoulders by the violence of the impact.
"You'll never force that door," said Lambro. "It's too strong. We must go downstairs. The signorina must have got in here through the secret panel in the bedroom."
Paul darted down the staircase, and in a moment more was within the bedchamber. He saw what had escaped his eye in the three previous explorations, namely, that the circular piece of violet-colored wax was traversed by a horizontal fracture, clearly caused by the moving of the panel. Lambro, who had followed close upon Paul, touched a certain spring hidden within some ornamental carving of the wall, and the panel glided off laterally, revealing a narrow corridor behind.
"To the left," said Lambro. "There's a staircase a few feet off. At the top of that another to the right. Mount that and you'll see the Master's room before you."
It was strange that the old Palicar did not follow Paul up the staircase, but so it was. He remained in the bedroom by the open panel with his hand to his ear in the attitude of listening.
"Oh, if she has discovered—it!" said Jacintha, with clasped hands.
"Well, what if she has? It was not our doing, nor the Master's for the matter of that."
"When I heard the signorina fall just now it brought the heart to my mouth. It reminded me of that other fall—you know whose. And in the same room, too! If—"
"Hold your tongue! How can I listen while you keep chattering?"
Paul, following the directions given by Lambro, had ascended the two staircases, and passing through a square opening in a panelled wall similar to that which he had just quitted, found himself in the mysterious study.
Barbara lay upon the floor in a seeming swoon.
Paul cast one swift glance around the apartment, but failed to discern anything in its present state calculated to inspire fear.
Kneeling by Barbara's side he raised her to a sitting posture, and passing his left arm around her rested her head upon his shoulder.
"Dearest Barbara, what has frightened you?" he asked, observing that her eyes were opening. It was the first time he had addressed her by her Christian name; the word had escaped him quite involuntarily. "What has frightened you?" he repeated.
"That!" she said.
Like a timid child she clung to him, and indicating as the cause of her fear the life-size portrait of a man hanging upon the wall,—a portrait scarcely discernible in the dim light.
"Take me away," she murmured faintly. "There issomething strange in the atmosphere of this room, something that I can't understand, something that makes me fear. Take me away."
As she seemed unable of herself to rise, Paul raised her light form in his arms and carried her down the secret stairway, through the bedchamber, past the wondering Lambro and his consort, back again into the dining-hall whence she had first set out.
She neither blushed nor resisted at finding herself in his arms, apparently not giving the matter a thought. Her fear overpowered every other emotion.
"Lambro," she asked, when somewhat revived by a stimulant administered by Jacintha. "There is a man's portrait on the wall of that room. Whose?"
"The Master's."
"The Master's?" she echoed in a tone of dismay. "Have I been living all this time in the house of my enemy?"
"You know the Master, then?" inquired Paul of Barbara. "What is his name?"
"Cardinal Ravenna."
"The Masterisa cardinal, I believe," said Lambro. "Ravenna? Humph! I have heard him called that by—by some; but it's not the name he usually bears when here."
"You serve a very bad master, Lambro," said Barbara reproachfully.
The old Palicar shrugged his shoulders in lieu of a reply.
Paul here recalled Lambro's remark to the effect that the Master belonged to a peculiar brotherhood pledged to the repudiation of women. This misogyny was now explained. But why should the abode of a Roman ecclesiastic contain a lady's bedchamber kept in a state of preparation for an occupant? Paul glanced at Jacintha as if seeking an explanation from her, but the old Greek hadset a warning eye upon his partner, and under that glittering terror Jacintha became mute.
"You have broken the Master's seal," grumbled Lambro, turning to Barbara. "He will learn that some one has been in that room. What excuse am I to make to him?"
"How did you discover the secret panel?" asked Paul of Barbara, and paying but scant respect to the Palicar's complaint.
"By accident," she replied. "Sleeping or waking that violet wax has exercised a fascination over me. Yesterday, attracted by an indefinable impulse, I stole into the bedchamber. Conjecturing that the panel might be a movable one, I began to search for the spring. Fortune favored my endeavors; I discovered the hidden corridor, but did not venture within. To-day when I heard you relate the story of Ginevra, I thought it would be a piece of fun to hide behind the panel and get you to search for me. While standing there in concealment the impulse came upon me to go forward and explore. I ascended the two staircases, and entered the upper room by a panel which I found open. Till that moment curiosity had been my only feeling, but as soon as I entered the gray twilight of that room I found myself trembling; the place seemed like a haunted chamber. And yet frightened though I was I could not retreat. Some strange power drew me on to the centre of the apartment, and there I stood looking around for—I know not what. I could hear your far-off cries, but I hesitated to answer lest the sound of my voice should call forth something terrible from this silent chamber.
"Then suddenly the sight of a lady's portrait hanging on the wall impelled me forward and almost made me forget my fears. The portrait was so like me that at first I thought it must be mine, but I know it cannot be."
"Why not?" asked Paul.
"Because I have never sat to an artist, and, moreover, the lady is wearing a dress such as I have never worn. She carries a sceptre in her hand and on her head is a diadem. Who ever saw me with sceptre and diadem? No; the portrait is not mine. Whose can it be? Do you know, Lambro?"
The old Palicar shook his head, but Paul felt that little reliance could be placed on his denial.
"In a distant corner," continued Barbara, "was another portrait, less easy to examine since it hung in the shadows. As I was moving forward a sudden gleam illumined the dusky chamber, bringing every line of the portrait into clear relief. I recognized the face of my enemy, Cardinal Ravenna; he seemed to be smiling at me with wicked satisfaction. Such fear and trembling took hold of me that I fainted."
"And that is all you have seen?" said Lambro, with evident relief, a feeling in which Jacintha seemed to share.
"What else was there to see, then?" asked Paul, fixing a significant look on the Palicar, who remained mute to the question.
"And this place, you say, belongs to Cardinal Ravenna?" said Barbara. "I must leave to-morrow."
"Oh! my lady, so soon?" cried Jacintha sorrowfully, for she had become very fond of Barbara.
"If the cardinal should appear he will take me back to the convent."
"By whose authority?" asked Paul, hotly.
"He is my guardian."
"That may be, but he shall not restore you to the convent against your will. You have not taken the vows of a nun?"
"No. I was placed in the convent to be educated merely."
"And you do not wish to return?"
"After enjoying freedom? Oh! no, no."
"Then you shall not return," said Paul, decisively.
"Still I must leave here. I cannot stay longer under this roof."
"True, but do not act hastily. Where are you going? What are your plans? Take a day for reflection. That brief delay will not make much difference. It is not likely that the cardinal will appear to-morrow, and if he should, what matters? For my own part I should very much like to come face to face with the man who proposes to immure you within the walls of a nunnery. He would not find me honey-tongued, though such a course may seem ungrateful after having so long enjoyed the shelter of his roof. Fear him not, signorina. Remain at least another day. Remember that to-morrow was fixed for our sail to Isola Sacra."
Barbara was persuaded by these words. One day, as Paul had said, would not make much difference.
"And I fainted at sight of a picture!" she said, with self-reproachful smile. "I, who have talked of shouldering a musket, and of fighting for Poland."
"We all have our fears at times. I ran away from my first battle," observed Lambro, without stating from how many others he had run.
Now that her fears were vanishing, Barbara began to review the sequel of her recent adventure. She had waked from a swoon to find herself in the arms of Paul, and with the words "dearest Barbara" falling upon her ear. The significance of the expression did not appeal to her at the time, but now the recalling of it caused her heart to palpitate. Her color came and went. She scarcely dared raise her eyes to meet his gaze. Silence and shyness marked her as their own for the remainder of the evening.
That night, when the other inmates of the castle were sleeping, Paul, with lighted lamp, stole off to the bedchambercontaining the secret panel, and began to explore the hidden passage and staircase leading to the mysterious study. Roof, walls, and flooring were of black oak thick with dust. Every angle had a festoon of cobwebs. On turning the corner of the staircase Paul made his first discovery. For some purpose or other a very long nail had been fixed in the baluster, and not having been driven far into the wood, it projected in such a manner that unobservant persons brushing hastily by would run the risk of tearing their clothing.
Some such accident had happened, for from the head of this nail there hung a tiny shred of flimsy fabric, which, upon examination by the light of the lamp, Paul found to be a fragment of delicate lace,—lace of a color, texture, and pattern that he had seen in the charming white costume with the silver rope-girdle which Jacintha had bestowed upon Barbara.
This fragment of lace had not become detached while Barbara herself was turning the staircase, inasmuch as during her recent adventure she had been wearing a different dress.
Scrutinizing everywhere, Paul was attracted by a faint sparkle coming from the dust in a corner of the staircase, the cause of which proved to be a little article of gold, obviously a seal. It was circular in shape, and the band encircling the stone was inscribed with the motto, "Esse quam videri." The stone itself forming the seal was a lovely sapphire bearing the image of a double-headed eagle, beautifully and delicately engraved.
"The royal arms of Poland, as I live!" muttered Paul. His surprise was naturally very great, but since speculation as to how the thing came to be there would have been mere waste of time, he pocketed the treasure-trove and passed on to the mysterious apartment. This he found differed in no way from an ordinary study. It was well lighted and well carpeted. There were numerousshelves with books thereon. There were chairs, a table, and an escritoire. There were oil-paintings on the walls. There was really nothing to alarm one in the aspect of the apartment. Paul did not feel anything of the strange sensation spoken of by Barbara, and therefore he felt compelled to ascribe that part of her experience to the imagination of a timid maiden. The room was locked and sealed from intrusion:ergo, her argument was there must be something fearful in it.
Paul turned his attention to the portraits on the wall, and began with that of the Master who was represented in the scarlet robes of a cardinal. It was a handsome face upon which Paul gazed,—a face full of intellectual power, with nothing of the mystic visionary about it; the face of a man of action, a man of ambition, an ecclesiastical statesman of the type of Richelieu or Mazarin. Paul waved the lamp to and fro, trying to educe the wicked expression that had frightened Barbara. True, the countenance was a cold and haughty character, but he could not honestly affirm that there was anything sinister in it. Barbara's fancy was probably due to her hostile feelings.
He next surveyed the picture of the young lady,—a maiden robed in jewelled attire with pearl necklace, diadem, and sceptre. The resemblance to Barbara was indeed so marvellous that Paul at first was disposed to believe that she was the person here represented, and that the symbols of high rank were decorative fancies of the artist.
A closer study of the portrait, however, made him think otherwise. True, every feature corresponded with Barbara's; hair and eyes were of the same color. The difference was in the expression. This girl had mischievous eyes, an arch smile, a radiant look. It was clearly the face of one leading a happy, unclouded life, whereas even in Barbara's smile there was always a tinge of melancholy,as if her mind were shadowed by the memory of some secret sorrow.
Who was this youthful lady with the smiling eyes? If she resembled Barbara in face, why not in the height and shape of her figure? Ah! here without doubt was the original wearer of that soft, silky dress which had required no alteration to suit Barbara. The young lady had perhaps left it as a parting gift to Jacintha for services rendered by the latter.
She had doubtless come to Castel Nuovo under the charge of Cardinal Ravenna. Singular that the bedchamber in which Barbara had slept should have been previously occupied by a lady her exact counterpart in face and figure! Was the bedroom that was kept in a constant state of readiness intended for her use?
He understood now the cause of the amazement on the part of Lambro and Jacintha when they first beheld Barbara; they were doubtless startled by her extraordinary resemblance to their previous guest.
That this lady had traversed the corridor leading to the cardinal's study was proved by the lace fragment of her dress adhering to the nail of the staircase, though it was difficult to assign a reason for this proceeding. A secret amour was the first idea that suggested itself. But then, a girl with so lovely a face would never lack youthful and handsome lovers; it was not likely, therefore, that she would be guilty of an intrigue with an ecclesiastic old enough to be her father.
The mystery was bewildering, especially when the diadem and sceptre were taken into consideration. Lambro and his consort could explain it, but only by breaking the oath imposed upon them by the cardinal,—an oath taken, if Jacintha's words were true, upon the Holy Sacrament itself. It must be a weighty secret to require such safeguarding; nay, more, it was a secret that threatened Jacintha's own life, as shown by her remark to Lambro:"Shall I be permitted to leave here after your death?"
Musing on all this, Paul turned from the portraits to examine the rest of the apartment, without discovering anything of consequence, till, being near the hearth, he happened to glance downwards. For a moment he stood as still as a statue; then he stooped and held the lamp low.
On the polished oak flooring was a dark stain.
The "Isola Sacra" mentioned by Paul as an inducement for Barbara to prolong her stay, was a small, uninhabited island facing Castel Nuovo at the distance of about three miles.
The island had often attracted the curiosity of Barbara, and Paul had promised that he would row her over to it whenever she felt disposed.
The day named by her for the excursion had come, and accordingly after breakfast Paul and Barbara descended to the beach, where they found Lambro getting his sailing-boat ready for their use. Jacintha followed with a luncheon-basket on her arm.
"It's no use putting up the sail," remarked the old Greek. "There's not a breath of wind stirring. You'll have to row."
Barbara sat by the tiller, where a silken cushion had been placed for her accommodation. Paul taking the oars pushed off, giving a smile to Jacintha and a nod to Lambro.
"At what hour must we expect you back?" asked Jacintha.
"Not till evening," replied Paul, who set out with the intention of spending the day upon the island, and of returning in romantic style beneath the light of the stars.
It was a morning of soft sunlight, lovely and still,—"the very bridal of the earth and sky." The heaven was one deep, living blue, and the sea so smooth that the mountain peaks, the cliffs, and the towers of the castlewere reflected on the azure surface of the water as in a mirror.
"It seems," sighed Barbara to herself, "that my last day here is to be the fairest."
In happy, dreamy silence she leaned back in her seat, holding the cords of the tiller, and watching Paul as he manipulated the oars. Each sweep of his arm lifted the boat half out of the water, for he was no novice at rowing, being the captain of the Britannic Aquatic Club at Corfu.
Barbara had never known any pleasure equal to that of Paul's companionship; and now this pleasure was about to end—unless—unless. And then the questions that had robbed her of sleep during the night began again their work of torture. Why had he called her "dearest Barbara"? Was it a mere transitory outburst of affection on his part, evoked by her helpless state? Would he place her on shipboard at Zara, and, leaving her to go on her way alone, return to Corfu? The thought alarmed her; she grew faint at the idea of a future without Paul.
She contrived to mask her emotion beneath a calm exterior, and as Paul caught her smiles, he little thought how her heart was pulsating to the very tune of love. She even volunteered to take one of the oars.
"What? and but just recovered from a fever! Besides, you will blister your fingers."
But Barbara was not to be dissuaded. She took the oar, and, never having held one before, behaved like a true novice. She failed to keep time with her partner, and her oar either did not strike the water, or striking, deluged the boat with spray, till Paul began to consider whether it would not be wise to suspend the luncheon-basket from the masthead. Strange how man will tolerate in woman blundering such as he would not tolerate for a moment in his fellowman! Barbara's incompetence at the oar was delightful in Paul's eyes.
"I'd better give it up," she cried laughingly. "Ourboat is performing such extraordinary gyrations that the steamer from Zara, which I can see in the distance, will be coming up to ascertain the cause."
So Paul resumed possession of the oar, and rowing onward in gallant style, reached the island, and ran the boat in upon the sands of a little bay.
Isola Sacra was not more than two miles in length, and about one in breadth; nevertheless, within its limited space there was considerable diversity. There were cliffs rising vertically from the water; there were strips of yellow sand by the sea; there were woods, and a silver-flashing stream. And most attractive sight of all, the remains of a Grecian temple crowning the summit of a small eminence, the marble columns glowing brilliantly white against a background of dark cypresses.
Towards this edifice they slowly made their way.
"To whom was this temple raised?" asked Barbara, as they stood within the ruin.
"It was the shrine of Eros."
The Temple of Love! What more appropriate place could there be for an avowal?
"The god of love," she murmured softly. "And his altar and shrine are fallen!"
"But not his worship," replied Paul. "That is eternal."
Barbara averted her eyes, and trembled with a sweet feeling.
They sat down on a fallen column beneath the shadow cast by a graceful palm. Before them lay the bay they had just crossed,—a blue semicircular mirror, the Illyrian mountains forming a picturesque background.
Paul and Barbara sat drinking in the deep beauty of the scene. In the boat their conversation had been lively and unrestrained, but now a silence lay on both.
Barbara was the first to speak.
"I think," she murmured dreamily, gazing at the sky,"that the loveliest part of heaven must be above this isle."
Paul glanced at her inquiringly, not quite comprehending her remark.
"The Arabian poets," she continued, "assert that the fairest spot on earth is situated beneath the fairest spot in heaven, the earthly, as it were, being a reflex of the heavenly."
"A pretty idea!" said Paul. "With me, however, the fairest place on earth is not a fixed, but a moveable point."
"Yes?" said Barbara inquiringly.
"To me the fairest place is wherever you happen to be. Do I make myself clear, dearest Barbara, or shall I say more?"
Barbara tried to speak, but the words would not come. There was no need for speech, however. A light that would have made the plainest features beautiful stole over her face. She placed her little hand within his, and by that act Paul knew that she was his for ever.
He drew her to his embrace, where she reclined supremely happy and yet afraid to raise her eyes to his.
"Barbara," he whispered, "you have never yet told me the story of your life. Will you not do so now?"
There was nothing Barbara would not have done to please Paul. She was silent for a few moments, as if collecting her thoughts, and then, still within the circle of his arms, she began in a voice as low and silvery as if coming from dreamland.
"If I have been truly told, I was born at Warsaw in 1826, and shall therefore be nineteen years of age next month.
"My parents I never knew; indeed I am even ignorant of their names and station in life. I had been adopted in infancy by a noble Polish lady, the Countess Lorenska,—a youthful widow, who, although kindness itself, was always mute to any remark relative to my parentage,though, as you may guess, the question as to my origin troubled me but little in those early days.
"The Countess Lorenska was very rich, her mansion at Warsaw a palace, and the ladies and gentlemen who attended her salons vied with each other in caressing and spoiling me. I had all that wealth could supply, including learned masters, under whose tuition I began that course of instruction which you have characterized as peculiar for a woman.
"My adoptive mother, herself well educated, superintended my studies, but the lesson she seemed chiefly desirous of inculcating is contained in almost the first sentence I was taught to utter,—'I will always love Poland and the Catholic Church. I will never cease to oppose Russia and the Greek Faith.' This vow was part of my prayers morning and evening, and such is the force of habit that I still continue to say it.
"As you may suppose, Polish history formed part, and a very important part, of my curriculum. My blood glowed as I listened to the story of my country's wrongs. But indeed I did not require the voice of past history to teach me patriotism. What was happening all round was sufficient. I was between five and six years of age when the uprising at Warsaw took place, and the unjust and terrible reprisals exacted by the conquering Russians have left an impression upon my mind which no length of time can ever efface.
"The war passed, and an era of tranquillity, or rather of torpor, followed.
"Among those who frequented the assemblies held by the Countess Lorenska—assemblies that partook more of a political than of a social character—was a young priest of Italian origin, named Pasqual Ravenna, who exercised considerable influence over the mind of my adoptive mother, inasmuch as he was her father-confessor.
"One night during a brilliant entertainment I stole outof thesalle de danseinto the moonlit gardens without, in order to avoid waltzing with a silly fellow who was my special aversion. I secreted myself in a quiet arbor. On the other side of the shrubbery two persons were slowly pacing to and fro, and earnestly conversing. I recognized the voices of Countess Lorenska and Father Ravenna. I had no wish to hear what they were saying; indeed, I was too much pre-occupied with my would-be partner, whom I could see through the leaves vainly trying to find me, to pay much attention to them, but still fragments of their dialogue reached my ears.
"'She must be removed,' Ravenna was saying; 'she is too near'—I did not catch the word—'to be safe. He often visits Warsaw. If she should be seen and recognized by him, our plan would be frustrated. Besides, she is growing. We must take care that she forms no love-attachment.'
"The countess laughed.
"'How absurd! She is too young for such notions.'
"'She is only twelve, 'tis true, but she is more advanced physically and mentally than most girls of fifteen. She will be safer in a convent till—till—her restoration,' he added, as if hesitating for the choice of a word.
"'If you say so, it must be so,' said the countess with a sigh, 'though it will almost break my heart to part with her. Your instructions have been carried out to the very letter. She will always be a devout Catholic, and patriotically Polish.'
"'So far—good,' replied Ravenna.
"They both moved off at this point, and not till then did it dawn upon me that they were speaking of myself.
"Next morning I was summoned by the countess, whom I found seated with Father Ravenna.
"'Barbara,' she said, 'you are going to live in a convent for the next six years, where you will continue the studies you have begun here. Father Ravenna will conductyou to the convent. And do not forget that if I should die he will be your guardian, and you must obey his commandments, however strange they may appear.'
"I cried very much on parting from my adoptive mother.
"'Courage! It is for the good of Poland,' said the countess, as she folded me in a last embrace.
"I failed to understand how Poland could be benefited by poor simple me, still less how my six years' residence in a convent was to accomplish that end.
"Under the conduct of Ravenna I travelled southward by easy stages. I began to forget my grief in the novelty of the scenes that succeeded each other. We entered Dalmatia, the country growing in grandeur and wildness with every mile of our journey.
"At last we reached our destination,—the Convent of the Holy Sacrament, situated in an isolated valley amid the loftiest peaks of the Dinaric Alps,—and here Ravenna left me after a long conference with the abbess.
"My life in the convent was a very pleasant one. Being the youngest person in the establishment, I became a sort of pet with the nuns. Though I took part in the devotional services of the convent, I did not wear the religious habit, nor did I partake of the food of the other inmates. My fare was more delicate than theirs; I wore costly dresses; I had my own dining-chamber with a nun to wait upon me. In short, if I had been a princess they could not have paid me more deference and attention.
"My studies were mainly directed by three monks from a neighboring establishment, one of whom, so the nuns asserted, had been a leading statesman of Austria, who, for some offence, had been ordered by the Kaiser to retire to a monastery; be that as it may, his was a mind well stored with political knowledge, and Metternich himself could not have taught me more of the secrets of contemporary history.
"My second year's residence in the convent was saddened by the tidings of the Countess Lorenska's death,—to me a calamity in more ways than one, for it made Father Ravenna my guardian, and him I had always viewed with secret dislike, if not with fear.
"Now that I was growing older and more thoughtful, the question as to my parentage began to trouble me. Who was I? why kept ignorant of my origin? why put to this course of study? The abbess Teresa averred that all would ultimately be made clear by my guardian Ravenna, who would remove me from the convent as soon as I was eighteen.
"On the eve of my eighteenth birthday Ravenna appeared, no longer a simple priest. His scarlet robes and the title 'Your Eminence,' addressed to him by the abbess, showed that he had risen to the dignity of a cardinal.
"He held an interview with me in the quietude of my own apartment. He had not seen me for six years, remember, and of course during that time I had grown from girlhood into womanhood.
"I noticed that as soon as he had set eyes on me he gave a start. I am certain that he murmured 'How like'! During the whole of the interview he walked to and fro, seemingly intent on studying my face and figure, now in one light, now in another, conduct which very much embarrassed me.
"'Know, my daughter,' he began, 'that your father, supposed by you to be dead, is really living.'
"You can imagine my surprise at this statement.
"'Then why does he not acknowledge me?'
"'He has lived under the belief that you died as soon as born.'
"'He knows differently now?'
"'I have informed him of his error.'
"'And he has sent you to bring me to him?' I cried joyfully.
"'Alas! there's a difficulty at present in the way of your meeting each other. Accustomed for eighteen years to regard you as dead, he listens with scepticism to the story that you are living. Nay, more, he avers the statement to be a conspiracy on my part."
"'A conspiracy!' I repeated wonderingly.
"'He has another daughter by a second wife, your half-sister, of whom he has grown passionately fond. You, as the elder, stand in the light of her interests; whatever she thought herself entitled to now devolves upon you. For this reason he seeks to deny your relationship to him.'
"'They wrong me by such thoughts,' I cried. 'I ask not for wealth, but for affection.'
"'Tut, tut,' returned the cardinal. 'We have clear proofs of your filiation and legitimacy. We shall compel him to acknowledge you. You shall not be deprived of your rights.'
"'How came my father to think me dead?'
"'I believe I am responsible for that error,' he said, with a smile that told me some interested motive lay at the root of his deception.
"I was unable to control my indignation.
"'You!' I cried. 'A holy cardinal the author of a falsehood that has separated a father from his daughter for eighteen years, and that will perhaps keep them apart forever! I honor my father for his present distrust of you. If you lied to him in my infancy, what wonder that he should deem you to be lying now?'
"The cardinal waved his hand deprecatingly. 'The end sanctifies the means, and my end is a noble one.'
"Curiosity overcame my anger. Despite my aversion to the cardinal, I could not refrain from plying him with questions; the names of my father and my sister; their station in life; their abode, and the like.
"But Cardinal Ravenna remained inflexibly uncommunicative. It was in vain that I knelt before him, and with tears entreated that he would let me see my father and sister face to face.
"'My presence may move them,' I said.
"'Your presence, my daughter, would create confusion,' he said coldly. 'Leave to me the task of winning for you a splendid heritage. Till then you must remain in this convent.'
"And with that Ravenna took his departure.
"The new knowledge imparted by the cardinal contributed rather to embitter than to cheer my life. It was not a pleasant reflection that somewhere in the world I had both father and sister who had never seen me, and who, apparently, had no desire to see me.
"For this state of affairs the cardinal, according to his own statement, was responsible, and I hated him for it. He cared nothing for the feelings of parent and child; his only object in bringing the two together was to advance his own interests; he would exact a price both from the father and from the new daughter.
"I resolved to cast off the self-constituted guardianship of Cardinal Ravenna. I would quit the convent, and, making my way to Warsaw, endeavor to discover the friends of my girlhood.
"But when I conferred with Abbess Teresa she told me kindly, yet firmly, that this could not be; the cardinal had left strict orders that I must be detained till his return.
"From that time my freedom ceased. The walks which I had been accustomed to take outside the convent in the company of two attendant nuns were stopped. The cloister gardens were open to me; once I had deemed them spacious, now they seemed very narrow. Though treated kindly in other ways I knew myself to be a prisoner watched by innumerable eyes.
"The cardinal came not to release me. And thus eight months passed,—the most melancholy time I had ever known.
"At last the porter, Bulgar, with whom I had always been a favorite, listened to my pleading, and one dark night, by preconcerted arrangement with me, he left the convent-gate unlocked, and I stole forth.
"But my flight might soon be intercepted. A few miles to the north of the convent, on the Bosnian frontier, is a fortress garrisoned by Austrian troops. I remembered that once when a poor nun longing for her freedom again, had run away, the Abbess had obtained aid from this fortress. The commandant sent out a troop, which, scouring the country around, returned with the fugitive after a three days' search. Devoted to the cardinal's interests, Abbess Teresa would certainly make a similar requisition in my case.
"Still I had the advantage of several hours' start, and, trusting to heaven for aid, I fled onward through the darkness. Zara, sixty miles to the northwest, was the haven of my desires. For two days I journeyed on foot, sleeping the first night in the woods.
"At the end of the second day—but you know the rest.
"O Paul," she murmured, with a soft pressure of her arms, "whom have I in the world but you? And to think that I at first repulsed you when you met me that night in the wood!"
And here Barbara, having finished her story, looked up at Paul.
"Why so grave?" she asked, with a smile that masked a certain misgiving on her part.
"In the very act of asking you to be my wife, Barbara, I feel compelled to pause. Your story is so suggestive. Supposing you should prove to be a rich heiress, or a peeress, or," he continued, his mind reverting to the portrait of the lady with the diadem, "shall we ascendhigher, and say a princess?—you will make a mesalliance by marrying one who has nothing but a cloak and a sword."
"Dreams, Paul, dreams."
"Nay, the interest taken in you by the cardinal proves that you are a person either of rank or wealth, or possibly both."
"I place no faith in the cardinal's story. Doubtless, there does exist somewhere a rich Polish noble, whose infant daughter was lost or stolen away eighteen or nineteen years ago, but I do not believe that I am she, though Ravenna would have me play the rôle of the missing heiress. But even if I were an empress—"
Here Barbara paused in her utterance.
"Yes; if you were an empress—?"
"Cannot you guess the rest?"
"You would be my wife. Is that so, Barbara?"
"Yes, Paul," she replied, simply. "None but you."
Paul raised her beautiful face upward to his own, and looked down into the light of her dark eyes.
"Barbara, I have loved you from the first moment of seeing you."
Barbara could not truthfully say that her love had begun so early. The knowledge of it had come upon her perhaps a month ago.
"I wish I had known it. A month ago!" he added ruefully. "Just think of the kisses I have missed!"
"Nothing prevents you, Paul, from repairing lost opportunities."
Who could have resisted the witchery of those lips raised so temptingly at that moment? Not Paul, certainly.
The dusk of twilight was stealing over the island. The stars were beginning to glimmer through the violet air above.
"It is time to return," said Paul, leading Barbara towards the boat.
"The mantilla!" she exclaimed, suddenly stopping short in her walk. "I left it in the ruins. I must go back for it, since it is Jacintha's. And my diamond brooch is fastened to it."
"You are tired, Barbara. Remain here. I will fetch it."
"Do not be long."
"Can you not bear a parting of five minutes?" he asked with a smile.
"One minute is too long, Paul."
Seating Barbara upon a fragment of rock, Paul hastened over the grassy upland in the direction of the classic ruin, which was distant about a quarter of a mile from the shore.
At the edge of a small wood that intervened between himself and the temple, he paused for a moment to listen to Barbara, who was singing in a sweet plaintive voice the hymn to the Virgin accustomed to be sung in her convent at vesper hour.