Randolph is not aware of her presence—the old man cannot see her, for there is agony like death in his heart, and his head is bowed upon his breast; but there she stands, motionless as though stricken into stone, by the broken words which she has heard.
It is Eleanor Lynn.
On the very threshold she was arrested by the deep tones of her father's voice,—she listened,—and for the first time heard the story of her mother's death.
And now, stepping backward, her eye riveted on her father's form, she seeks to leave the room unobserved,—she reaches the threshold, when her father's voice is heard once more:—
"Ask me not for details, ask me not," he cried in broken tones, as once more he raised his convulsed countenance to the light "The author of this outrage was not a man, but a negro,—a demon in a demon's shape; and"—he smiled, but there was no merriment in his smile,—"and now you know why I left home, native land, all the associations which make life dear, seventeen years ago. Now you know why I hate the accursed race."
As he spoke, Eleanor Lynn glided from the room.
[CHAPTER X.]
"YES, YOU WILL MEET HIM."
As midnight drew near, Randolph was alone in his bedchamber,—a spacious chamber, magnificently furnished, and illumined by a single candle, which stood upon a rosewood table near the lofty bed. Seated in a chair, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and an opened letter in his hand, Randolph's eyes were glassy with profound thought. His face was very pale; a slight trembling of the lip, an occasional heaving of the chest, alone made him appear less motionless than a statue.