es are
never forsaken in Spain."

"Nor about lovers despairing there, I suppose?"

"That good opinion of ourselves, madam, with which you English are
pleased to twit us now and then, always prevents so sad a state of mind.
For myself, I have had little to do with love; but I have had still less
to do with despair, and intend, by help of Heaven, to have less."

"You are valiant, sir."

"You would not have me a coward, madam?" and so forth.

Now all this time Don Guzman had been talking at Rose Salterne, and
giving her the very slightest hint, every now and then, that he was
talking at her; till the poor girl's face was almost crimson with
pleasure, and she gave herself up to the spell. He loved her still;
perhaps he knew that she loved him: he must know some day. She felt now
that there was no escape; she was almost glad to think that there was
none.

The dark, handsome, stately face; the melodious voice, with its rich
Spanish accent; the quiet grace of the gestures; the wild pathos of
the story; even the measured and inflated style, as of one speaking of
another and a loftier world; the chivalrous respect and admiration for
woman, and for faithfulness to woman--what a man he was! If he had been
pleasant heretofore, he was now enchanting. All the ladies round felt
that, she could see, as much as she herself did; no, not quite as much,
she hoped. She surely understood him, and felt for his loneliness more
than any of them. Had she not been feeling for it through long and sad
months? But it was she whom he was thinking of, she whom he was speaking
to, all along. Oh, why had the tale ended so soon? She would gladly have
sat and wept her eyes out till midnight over one melodious misery after
another; but she was quite wise enough to keep her secret to herself;
and sat behind the rest, with greedy eyes and demure lips, full of
strange and new happiness--or misery; she knew not which to call it.

In the meanwhile, as it was ordained, Cary could see and hear through
the window of the hall a good deal of what was going on.

"How that Spanish crocodile ogles the Rose!" whispered he to young St.
Leger.

"What wonder? He is not the first by many a one."

"Ay--but--By heaven, she is making side-shots at him with those
languishing eyes of hers, the little baggage!"

"What wonder? He is not the first, say I, and won't be the last. Pass
the wine, man."

"I have had enough; between sack and singing, my head is as mazed as