, e'en the merest,
Might chance to have some value there;
But I would be the dearest.'

[Illustration: 'True, there is no tender light there,' muttered he, gazing
at her eyes]

'What had he done to merit such a hope?' said she haughtily.

'Loved her--only loved her!'

'What value you men must attach to this gift of your affection, when it can
nourish such thoughts as these! Your very wilfulness is to win us--is not
that your theory? I expect from the man who offers me his heart that he
means to share with me his own power and his own ambition--to make me the
partner of a station that is to give me some pre-eminence I had not known
before, nor could gain unaided.'

'And you would call that marrying for love?'

'Why not? Who has such a claim upon my life as he who makes the life worth
living for? Did you hear that shout?'

'I heard it,' said he, standing still to listen.

'It came from the village. What can it mean?'

'It's the old war-cry of the houseless,' said he mournfully. 'It's a note
we are well used to here. I must go down to learn. I'll be back presently.'

'You are not going into danger?' said she; and her cheek grew paler as she
spoke.

'And if I were, who is to care for it?'

'Have you no mother, sister, sweetheart?'

'No, not one of the three. Good-bye.'

'But if I were to say--stay?'

'I should still go. To have your love, I'd sacrifice even my honour.
Without it--' he threw up his arms despairingly and rushed away.

'These are the men whose tempers compromise us,' said she thoughtfully. 'We
come to accept their violence as a reason, and take mere impetuosity for an
argument. I am glad that he did not shake my resolution. There, that was
another shout, but it seemed in joy. There was a ring of gladness in it.
Now for my sketch.' And she reseated herself before her easel. 'He shall
see when he comes back how diligently I have worked, and how small a share
anxiety has had in my thoughts. The one thing men are not proof against is
our independence of them.' And thus talking in broken sentences to herself,
she went on rapidly with her drawing, occasionally stopping to gaze on it,
and humming some old Italian ballad to herself. 'His Greek air was pretty.
Not that it was Greek; these fragments of melody were left behind them
by the Venetians, who, in all lust of power, made songs about contented
poverty and humble joys. I feel intensely hungry, and if my dangerous guest
does not return so