“My dear cousin!” he implored in a voice that was mellow with agitation, “don’t decide against me at once and forever.  I must have some hope.  Pity me.”

“Ah, Coronado!  Why will you?” urged Clara, in great trouble.

“I must!  You must not stop me!” he persisted eagerly.  “My life is in it.  I love you so that I don’t know how I shall end if you will not hearken to me.  I shall be driven to desperation.  Why do you turn away from me?  Is it my fault that I care for you?  It is your own.  You are so beautiful!”

“Coronado, I wish I were very ugly,” murmured Clara, for the moment sincere in so wishing.

“Is there anything you dislike in me?  I have been as kind as I knew how to be.”

“It is true, Coronado.  You have overwhelmed me with your goodness.  I could go on my knees to thank you.”

“Then—­why?”

“Ah! why will you force me to say hard things?  Don’t you see that it tortures me to refuse you?”

“Then why refuse me?  Why torture us both?”

“Better a little pain now than much through life.”

“Do you mean to say that you never can—?” He could not finish the question.

“It is so, Coronado.  I never could 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?”