"I—I will go! let me witness this meeting," cried Florence, suddenly arousing herself, and standing upright. "I will not take his word nor yours; you slander him, you slander him! If he has a wife, let me look upon her with my own eyes."
The old lady and Jacob looked at each other. Florence stood before them, her soft eyes flashing, her cheeks fired with the blood grief had driven from her heart.
"You dare not—I know it, you dare not!"
Still her auditors looked at each other in painful doubt.
"I knew that it was false!" cried Florence, with a laugh of wild exultation. "You hesitate, this proves it. To-morrow, madam, I will leave this roof—I will go to my husband. The very presence of those who slander him is hateful to me. To-night; yes, this instant, I will go."
"Let her be convinced," said the old lady.
The strong nerves of Jacob gave way. He looked at that young face, so beautiful in its wild anguish, and shrunk from the consequences of the conviction that awaited her.
"It would be her death," he said. "I cannot do it!"
"Better death than that which might follow this unbelief."
The old lady placed her hand upon Jacob's arm, and drew him aside. They conversed together in low voices, and Florence regarded them with her large, wild eyes, as a wounded gazelle might gaze upon its pursuers.