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"You are wrong," says Mona, coldly. "They seldom trouble themselves to speak of you at all." This is crueller than she knows. Sir Nicholas again applies himself to the deciphering of the detested letter. "'He would have written before, but saw no good in making a fuss beforehand,'" he reads slowly. He handles the gun again menacingly. Mona, though still apparently calm, whitens perceptibly beneath the cold penetrating rays of the "pale-faced moon" that up above in "heaven's ebon vault, studded with stars unutterably bright," looks down upon her perhaps with love and pity..

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"No, you are not," says Geoffrey, grieved to the heart that he could have used such a word towards her. "You are nothing that is not sweet and adorable. And, besides all this, you are, I know, sincerity itself. I feel (and am thankful for the knowledge) that were fate to 'steep me in poverty to the very lips,' you would still be faithful to me." "From whom?" demands Mona, lazily, seeing the writing is unknown to her. "The praise I heard of it, though great, was too faint," he answers her, with such extreme sincerity in his tone as touches and gladdens the heart of the little patriot at his feet. She smiles contentedly, and turns her eyes once more with lazy delight upon the sea, where each little point and rock is warmed with heavenly light. She nods softly to herself, but says nothing. "Where have you been, Mona?" he asks, quietly, gazing into the great honest liquid eyes raised so willingly to his own..