Malcolm raised his eyes carelessly.
Yes, there she stood! the beautiful girl whose graceful form he had followed with a delighted gaze as she glided among the trees upon the banks of the dark lake. There she stood, in the perfect loveliness of her Oriental charms, one of Mohammed’s fabled houris descended upon the earth. There she stood—her elegant little figure drawn up to its full height, her graceful head slightly bent upon her bosom, her jet-black ringlets falling around her rich, warm, olive face, with its slender, arched eyebrows, its large, dark, burning eyes, and its crimson cheeks and lips.
Only to look upon such beauty was a keen though dangerous delight. So Malcolm Montrose felt, as he took her hand, raised his eyes to hers, and met the quick and quickly-withdrawn flashing glance of those great, black, burning stars, so full of half-suppressed fire, so replete with thrilling, mysterious meaning.
“I am very happy to meet you, my dear cousin,” he said, earnestly, as he pressed and released her hand.
With the long lashes dropped lower over her dark eyes, and her rich bloom heightened, she curtsied slightly, and accepted the chair that he set for her.
Malcolm placed himself beside Agatha, and glided gradually into conversation with herself and the princess; but his eyes involuntarily wandered off to the beautiful Asiatic girl, and every furtive glance thrilled him with a deeper and a stranger delight.
Dinner was announced, and Malcolm gave his arm to the Princess Pezzilini to conduct her to the dining-room. At dinner he sat next to the princess, who was herself a woman of brilliant conversational powers; but while conversing with her his thoughts continually wandered to the lovely, dark-eyed girl on the opposite side of the table.
When dinner was over, and they returned to the drawing-room, the evening was spent in earnest conversation, until at length, when it was quite late, Lady Leaton observed that Agatha seemed fatigued, and rang for her maid to attend her to her chamber. Malcolm led Agatha to the door, where he bade her good-night, and soon after the circle broke up for the evening.
On taking leave of Eudora, Malcolm again touched her hand, and met her eyes with a thrill of delight as strange as it was incomprehensible.
When Malcolm reached his chamber, he at once dismissed the old valet, locked his door, and commenced pacing thoughtfully up and down the room. He had enough of exciting subjects occupying his mind to keep him from rest. The presence of the magnificent Pezzilini in the house; the death of his uncle; the failing health of his fair young cousin; but through all these disturbing subjects glided one image of ineffable loveliness—Eudora, the beautiful Asiatic girl; and this haunting image was so delightful to contemplate, that as often as it glided before his imagination, he paused to dwell enchanted upon it. He would not listen to the still small voice that warned him this was a dangerous vision; he meant no wrong to Agatha, his betrothed bride, to whom his hand was pledged, to whom he thought his heart was given, and he knew nothing of the insidious approaches of that master-passion which steals first through the eyes, then through the imagination, until it effects an immovable lodgment in the heart. The field of his imagination was already occupied; would the citadel of his heart be occupied? Who could tell?