ould have said it myself. But you have said
it. I never shall love you."

Once more the man felt a cutting and sickening wound, as of a bullet
penetrating a vital part. Unable for the moment to say another word, he
rose and walked the room in silence.

"Coronado, you don't know how sorry I am to grieve you so," cried the
girl, almost sobbing. "It seems, too, as if I were ungrateful. I can only
beg your pardon for it, and pray that Heaven will reward you."

"Heaven!" he returned impatiently. "You are my heaven. You are the only
heaven that I know."

"Oh, Coronado! Don't say that. I am a poor, sinful, unworthy creature.
Perhaps I could not make any one happy long. Believe me, Coronado, I am
not worthy to be loved as you love me."

"You are!" he said, turning on her passionately and advancing close to
her. "You are worthy of my life-long love, and you shall have it. You
shall have it, whether you wish it or not. You shall not escape it. I will
pursue you with it wherever you go and as long as you live."

"Oh! You frighten me. Coronado, I beg of you not to talk to me in that
way. I am afraid of you."

"What is the cause of this?" he demanded, hoping to daunt her into
submission. "There is something in my way. What is it? Who is it?"

Clara's paleness turned in an instant to scarlet.

"Who is it?" he went on, his voice suddenly becoming hoarse with
excitement. "It is some one. Is it this American? This boy of a
lieutenant?"

Clara, trembling with an agitation which was only in part dismay, remained
speechless.

"Is it?" he persisted, attempting to seize her hands and looking her
fiercely in the eyes. "Is it?"

"Coronado, stand back!" said Clara. "Don't you try to take my hands!"

She was erect, her eyes flashing, her cheeks spotted with crimson, her
expression strangely imposing.

The man's courage drooped the moment he saw that she had turned at bay. He
walked to the other side of the room, pressed his temples between his
palms to quiet their throbbing, and made an effort to recover his
self-possession. When he returned to her, after nearly a minute of
silence, he spoke quite in his natural manner.

"This must pass for the present," he said. "I see that it is useless to
talk to you of it now."

"I hope you are not angry with me, Coronado."

"Let it go," he replied, waving his hand. "I can't speak more of it now."

She wanted to say, "Try never to speak of it again;" but she did not dare
to anger him f