"A noble parentage—a thrice noble parentage!" she cried out, hoarse with pain and rage. "The child of a villain, and his slave! Woman, I could tear you into atoms, for daring to pour your black blood into my life!"
Zillah drew back, pale and aghast. She could not speak.
"Ah, now I know why this flesh crept, and the blood fell back upon my heart, when that vicious old man was near! My life rose up against the outrage of its own being. I tell you, woman, if this man is my father, I hate him!"
"And me," faltered Zillah, shuddering.
"And you, negro-slave that you are."
"I am neither a negro or a slave," answered Zillah, recovering a portion of her haughtiness; "the taint of my blood has died out in yours. Look on me, unfeeling girl, and say where you find a trace of the African—not in this hair, it is straight and glossy as Mabel Harrington's—not on my forehead, see how smooth it is—not in my heart or brain, for when did an African ever have the mind to invent, or the courage to carry out, the designs that fill my brain? I tell you, girl, your mother has neither the look nor the soul of a slave; but she has will, and power, and a purpose, too, that shall lift her child so high, that the whitest woman of her father's race will yet be proud to render her homage!"
"Dreaming, dreaming!" exclaimed Agnes, scornfully.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
A STORMY PARTING.
Zillah drew her tall form to its full height.