“Then you are alone?” he questioned, with a quick sparkle of the eye, that filled me with courage rather than terror.
“At present, yes.”
“And how long have you been in Scotland, may I presume to inquire?”
“A very short time.”
“But you are not all this distance from home alone?”
“No, I have friends with me.”
“Oh, yes, old Turner, I suppose. And now, sweet Zana, let me say how happy, how very happy I am to meet you again; it seems like a dream.”
It was impossible that I should not feel the deprecating humility of his manner; besides, what had I ever received from this man but kindness? His only fault was that of having offered love, protection, honorable marriage, when all others of his race shrunk from me as if I had been a leper. Still there was aversion in my heart; and I walked on, but not in the direction of our boat. He followed me.
“Can you forgive it, Zana, that I am still true;—that I cannot cease to love you?”
“It is not a crime to love any one,” I answered, touched by his earnestness. “I do not scorn, but am grateful for all kindness!”