Page:Vance--Terence O'Rourke.djvu/363

 and held it to the light. This was a tiny miniature, no larger than a man's thumb nail, wrought with marvelous skill by some painter who had seen beneath the face, deep into the soul, of his subject.

For the face that looked out from the dark background was very lovely—the features of a most wonderfully beautiful woman.

But it was her eyes which held him as one bewitched. Large eyes they were, and dark, and gently smiling beneath their deep fringe of dark lashes. And out of their depths the woman's soul flamed to greet O'Rourke; the love that she bore him gleamed and glowed therein,—even as he had seen it glow when he had loved her, long years past, undying and undoubting, faithful unto the end, whatever that might be when it should come.

"This," he said, awed, "is a miracle—a miracle, sweetheart—this portrait of ye. Faith, 'tis beyond belief, so real it makes your presence seem, dearest. And d'ye think—or does Chambret think—that I can look into those eyes and believe that ye are marrying this fellow, Duke Victor, of your own choosing? Faith, no! The sovereign—that is to tell me ye need me. But this—this is to tell me ye love me still, sweetheart! Sure, and wild horses wouldn't be keeping me from ye now!"

For a long time he stood, gazing upon the miniature with a kindling eye.

It was with a start that he was roused by the footsteps of the concierge on the stairway; and it was with smoldering resentment that he realized that unsentimental Danny was snoring peacefully in Chambret's armchair.

"Call another fiacre!" he instructed the concierge. "And then come back and lock up these rooms. 'Tis ourselves