“Come away from that man this instant, Gloria,” cried Eusebie, stopping in her wild walk and stamping with fury. “Come away from him, I command you! He is not your uncle! You shall not call him uncle! He is a traitor and a villain! Come away, I say!”
The child did not obey; she could not move; she was half paralyzed by fear and horror, and more likely to sink than to stand.
The man put his arm around her, and drew her closer to him.
The woman stamped with fury.
“Let my niece go, you caitiff!” she screamed.
He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and glared at her, while his face darkened and hardened.
The terrified child—terrified for others, not for herself—pressed closely to him, as if, in extremity, she would hold him back by her own baby strength, and moaned, coaxingly:
“Uncle, uncle, uncle dear.”
Again his face changed; he stooped towards her and she laid her cheek against his lips.
“Come away from that man, or I will tear you from him! He is not your uncle! He is no kin to you! He is nothing to you! No! I thank Heaven that not one drop of his false, black blood runs in the veins of any one belonging to me! I have not even a child! Ha! ha! I know the reason! Fiends are not permitted to be fathers!” hissed the woman, with all the hate and scorn that Satan could cast into her face and voice.