Not far from her slept
the kind, loving father, who was prouder and fonder of her than
of any one on earth. Gaspar Laurence, who would have died for
her, lay at that moment not far away, awake and thinking of her.
Yet in the hour of her deadly peril, when she stood on the shore
of the deep lake, in the fierce grasp of a half-maddened man,
there was no one near to help her or raise a hand in her defense.
But she was no coward, and all the high spirit of her race rose
within her.
"Loosen your grasp, Hugh," she said, calmly; "you pain me."
"Answer me!" he cried. "Where is the ring I gave you?"
He seized both her hands and looked at them; they were firm and
cool--they did not tremble. As his fierce, angry eyes glanced
over them, not a feature of her beautiful face quivered.
"Where is my ring?" he asked. "Answer me, Beatrice."
"I have not worn it lately," she replied. "Hugh, you forget
yourself. Gentlemen do not speak and act in this way."
"I believe I am going mad," he said, gloomily. "I could
relinquish my claim to you, Beatrice for your own sake, but I
will never give you up to be the wife of any other man.
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