Zulima stood up; her face grew white as death. “Do you mean to say, sir, that my husband—that Daniel Clark deceived me like the other?”
“I mean to say nothing,” replied Smith; “nothing, save that from my heart I pity you, sweet lady. So much beauty, so trusting; who could help pitying you?”
“You pity me? Oh, Father of mercies!” cried the excited young creature, bending like a reed and raising her locked hands to her eyes; “if this thing should be true!” She fell upon a chair; her slight figure waved to and fro in the agony of her doubts.
“Has he written—did he send for you?” questioned Smith, steeling himself against her grief.
“No, no!”
“Is he aware of your coming?”
“No; I shall surprise him; I wished to surprise him!” cried the wretched young creature, dropping her hands.
“I am afraid you will surprise him, and unpleasantly, too!” said Smith.
Zulima turned her dry eyes upon him; her lips parted, but she had no power to utter the questions that arose in her heart. A thousand black doubts possessed her. “Why—why—?” It was all she could say.
Smith hesitated; he was reluctant to consummate the last act of villainy required of him. It seemed like striking down a lamb, while its soft, trusting eyes were fixed upon his. But he had gone too far, he could not recede now.