"But it shall know. I will myself proclaim this infamy!" cried the woman, clenching her hand, and shaking from head to foot with internal rage.
The General cast on her a look half-surprised, half-amused.
"Ah, Zillah, and who on earth of our world can you know, or—if that were possible—what would your word be against the life of a woman so universally admired and beloved, as my wife has been?"
"But, I will prove what I say by that book."
"Which is just now in my possession, where it is likely to remain. Be content, beautiful Zillah. The fate of Mabel Harrington rests with me. I shall not trust her to your jealous rage."
"To my jealous rage!" repeated Zillah, hardening down in her passion till she seemed turning to marble from a single effort of will. "I thought of your honor, not of my own wrongs. I struggle against contempt for the man whom I have so long and so miserably loved."
"Contempt, Zillah?"
"Yes, sir, contempt. Even your slave has a right to despise the man who connives at his own dishonor."
"Woman, are you mad!—but no matter. I am too weary for much anger. You should have remembered of old that I hate scenes. This has been gotten up with too much intensity. I am tired of it."
"I see, I see!" replied the woman, resuming her slave-like submission. "You are tired, with no one to care about it. Let me serve you once more."