“Yonder,” said I, almost lifting her from the earth and dragging her forward to a point from whence the boat could be seen close by the opposite shore; “yonder he goes; I have been pleading with him in your behalf. I besought him not to leave you with this terrible reproach on your name.”
“Well, well,” she gasped.
“He refused—he spoke of you as a person whom he could not respect.”
“No—no! not that! not that!” she almost shrieked, clenching her hands together.
“Worse, Cora, worse—he dared to offer his love to me—his vile, traitorous love. Before this he has done the same thing; but now it was more direct, more passionate. He offered to brave Lady Catherine, and break all ties for my sake, this very day.”
I paused in this headlong speech; my words had turned her to marble. She stood thus white and rigid for a moment, then, like a statue hurled from its support fell prone upon the earth; her face downward and clutching the turf with both hands.
I shrieked and fell back from her in dismay, startled by the suddenness of her fall.
She remained still, and but for a faint quivering of her fingers in the grass, I should have believed that she had dropped down dead.
“Cora!” I cried, “Cora, my poor Cora, are you hurt?”
I bent down and attempted to lift her from the earth, but she shrunk from me moaning and shuddering. This repulse was not enough, I wound my arm around her and covered her golden hair with my kisses.