self--were it
not for semi-paternal authority! Never was the thing they call love
better acted. I declare it was a great moral lesson to listen to you.
You made the folly of it so apparent--so abject!"

The girl was still pale. The rich glow of health, without the least
colour in her cheeks, had disappeared. But the eyes of Valentine la Nina
were dangerously bright.

The Jesuit proceeded, without taking note of these symptoms of disorder.
He was so accustomed to use the girl's beauty and cleverness to bait his
hooks. By her father she had been vowed from infancy to the service of
the Society. Her rank was known only to a few in the realm. Save on this
condition of service, Philip would never have permitted her to remain
in his kingdom of the Seven Spains. And, indeed, Valentine la Nina
deserved well of Philip and the Gesu. She had served the Society
faithfully.

For these reasons she was dear as anything in flesh and blood could be
to Mariana the Jesuit. He laughed again, tasting the rare flavour of the
jest.

"A rich prize indeed," he chuckled. "The cousin of the Bearnais--a
candidate of the League for the crown of France. Ho, ho! Serving on the
galleys as a Huguenot! You were right. There is no good fuel for Father
Teruel's bonfires--he is meat for the masters of Tullio the Neapolitan
and Serra his kinsman. Was there ever such sport? You do indeed deserve
a province and a dower, were it not that you are too valuable where you
are, aiding the Cause--and me, your poor loving 'uncle'! But what made
me laugh as I listened, till the tears came into my old eyes, was to
hear you--you, to whom a thousand men had paid court--begging for the
love of that starved and terrified young braggart in his suit of silken
bravery, tashed with prisons, and the fear of the Place of Eyes still
white on his face!"

Then all unexpectedly Valentine la Nina spoke. Her tall figure seemed to
overshadow that of her little, dimpling, winking kinsman, as the pouches
under his eyes shook with merriment, while his mouth was one wreathed
smile, and he pointed his beautiful, plump, white fingers together
pyramidally, as if measuring one hand against the other.

"It was true," she said point-blank, "I was not pretending. I did love
him--and I do!"

The dimples died out one by one on the face of the historian, Mariana of
Toledo. The ripe colour faded from the cheek-bone. He glanced nervously
over his shoulder with the air of a man who may be shel