"Love—O God, no!"
"What then? do you still fear him?—fear him, too, protected by the unsleeping eye and the vigilant hand of a love like mine?"
"Yes!" she said falteringly, "I fear for /you/!"
"Me!" I cried, laughing scornfully, "me! nay, dearest, there breathes not that man whom you need fear on /my/ account. But, answer me; is not—"
"For Heaven's sake, for mercy's sake!" cried Isora, eagerly, "do not question me; I may not tell you who, or what this man is; I am bound, by a most solemn oath, never to divulge that secret."
"I care not," said I, calmly, "I want no confirmation of my knowledge: this masked rival is my own brother!"
I fixed my eyes full on Isora while I said this, and she quailed beneath my gaze: her cheek, her lips, were utterly without colour, and an expression of sickening and keen anguish was graven upon her face. She made no answer.
"Yes!" resumed I, bitterly, "it is my brother,—be it so,—I am prepared; but if you can, Isora, say one word to deny it."
Isora's tongue seemed literally to cleave to her mouth; at last with a violent effort, she muttered, "I have told you, Morton, that I am bound by oath not to divulge this secret; nor may I breathe a single syllable calculated to do so,—if I deny one name, you may question me on more,—and, therefore, to deny one is a breach of my oath. But, beware!" she added vehemently, "oh! beware how your suspicions—mere vague, baseless suspicions—criminate a brother; and, above all, whomsoever you believe to be the real being under this disguised name, as you value your life, and therefore mine,—breathe not to him a syllable of your belief."
I was so struck with the energy with which this was said, that, after a short pause, I rejoined, in an altered tone,—