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Savitre, who had never cared to leave her friend before, even to become Panteleone's bride, entered into the preparations with unconcealed eagerness. She had faithfully promised her lover that, once in Portugal, she would, with his father's approval, marry him. Lianor felt no regret at leaving India, except for a loved grave her father's which she had so carefully tended.
A few days later a grand old ship, bound for Portugal, started from that coast, bearing the wrecked crew to their former destination. Panteleone's father received Savitre with almost paternal love, and some months after their arrival, when their mourning for poor Lianor was lessened, the two faithful hearts became one.
A silvery laugh broke suddenly on the silence which had fallen between them, and Savitre, leaning lightly on Panteleone's arm, stood before them. The rajah's young widow made a strange contrast to Lianor, gay with rich colors. Judging from Panteleone's ardent gaze, he, at least, saw some beauty in the dusky, changing face. "What, Sampayo!
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