Page:Vance--Terence O'Rourke.djvu/292

 "And ye wanted O'Rourke to be with ye, to lead the massacre, whether he would or no! Faith, mam'selle, 'tis an insult to your beauty that ye should make of it a snare for a poor adventurer!"

She started toward him, blazing with anger; O'Rourke got awestruck with the flaming beauty of her. And then she stopped; the flush that had colored her cheeks with shame evoked by his words ebbed, leaving her more pale, it seemed, than before. She stood irresolute, her lips trembling.

What was she to say to him, who saw so clearly, who had power to make her see more clearly than ever she had seen, what the explosion would mean, once the spark touched the powder?

What could she say? The phrases that she had thought to use were become vapid, meaningless, since he had spoken his mind—spoken it freely, boldly, forthright, like the man he was. Her artillery was spiked, this Irishman triumphant.

He was right. She hated him for being right. She hated him—or, did she? She had never loved; was this—the dawn? Was this—love? Or fascination? What was there about the man—the lean, bronzed face, the resolute swing of his shoulders, the devil-may-care honesty of him—that had printed his image on her mind, indelibly, it seemed, since first she had met his look of almost boyish adoration?

But—she must not think of that. There was the Cause. She was pledged to the Cause, whatever might befall. And still, there was no heart in her for the alluring of O'Rourke—the winning of him to the side of the Cause, which she had pledged to her fellow conspirators.

What had she to say for herself?