"But, dearest, your resolution may avail you for a time; but it cannot forever baffle the hardened nature of a man. I know my own sex, and I know my own ferocity, were it once aroused."
"But, Morton, you do not know me," said Isora, proudly, and her face, as she spoke, was set, and even stern: "I am only the coward when I think of you; a word—a look of mine—can abash this man; or, if it could not, I am never without a weapon to defend myself, or—or—" Isora's voice, before firm and collected, now faltered, and a deep blush flowed over the marble paleness of her face.
"Or what?" said I, anxiously.
"Or thee, Morton!" murmured Isora, tenderly, and withdrawing her eyes from mine.
The tone, the look that accompanied these words, melted me at once. I rose,—I clasped Isora to my heart.
"You are a strange compound, my own fairy queen; but these lips, this cheek, those eyes, are not fit features for a heroine."
"Morton, if I had less determination in my heart, I could not love you so well."
"But tell me," I whispered, with a smile, "where is this weapon on which you rely so strongly?"
"Here!" answered Isora, blushingly; and, extricating herself from me, she showed me a small two-edged dagger, which she wore carefully concealed between the folds of her dress. I looked over the bright, keen blade, with surprise, and yet with pleasure, at the latent resolution of a character seemingly so soft. I say with pleasure, for it suited well with my own fierce and wild temper. I returned the weapon to her, with a smile and a jest.
"Ah!" said Isora, shrinking from my kiss, "I should not have been so bold, if I only feared danger for myself."