"Don't speak that way--forgive me."
"Morgianna!" cried Fernando, "Morgianna!"
"Call me that; aye call me that always," exclaimed the captain's little
daughter; "never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never again
reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die,
Fernando."
"I reprove you!" said Fernando.
"Yes, for every kind and honest word you uttered went to my heart. For
you who have borne so much from me--for you, who owe your suffering to
my caprice--for you to be so kind--so noble to me--oh, Fernando!"
He could say nothing, not a syllable. There was an odd sort of eloquence
in his arm, which had crept further round her waist, and their lips met.
The barbecue and celebration was next day. Fernando was present, but a
little absent-minded. When called on for a speech, his ideas were
confused, and he was about to break down, when a voice behind him
whispered:
"Ye're makin' a divil's own mess of it, Fernando, lave it to me."
He took Terrence at his word, and announced that his Irish friend, one
of the defenders of Mariana, would now address them, and gave way to the
orator. Terrence did the subject justice. With the rich brogue of
Ireland rolling from his tongue, he avowed himself an American. He
declared that he was a better American than many present, as he was an
American from choice, and they by necessity.
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