"Eleanor, I am sadly troubled. I have just received a letter which informs me of a sad disaster which has happened to a friend,—a friend whom I have known from boyhood."
Eleanor took his hand. As the light flashed up for an instant, she was startled at the sight of his face.
"Compose yourself, Randolph," she said, kindly.—"The news may not be so disastrous as you think."
"I will tell you the story in a few words," and he took her hand as he continued: "A month ago, I left my friend in Charleston. Young, reputed to be wealthy, certainly connected with one of the first families of South Carolina, he was engaged in marriage to a beautiful girl,—one of the most beautiful that sun ever shone upon,—" he paused,—"as beautiful, Eleanor, as yourself."
And he fixed his ardent gaze upon that face which the soft shadow, broken now and then by the uncertain light, invested with new loveliness.
Eleanor made no reply in words; but her eyes met those of her plighted husband.
"The day was fixed for their marriage,—they looked forward to it with all the anticipations of a pure and holy love. It came,—the bride and bridegroom stood before the altar, in presence of the wedding-guests,—the priest began the ceremony, when a revelation was made which caused the bride to fall like one dead at the feet of her abashed and despair-stricken lover."
"This was, indeed, strange," whispered Eleanor, profoundly interested; "and this revelation?"
Randolph drew her nearer to him; his eyes grew deeper in their light, as in a voice, that grew lower at every word, he continued,
"The bridegroom was, indeed, connected with one of the first families in the State, but even as the priest began the ceremony, a voice from among the guests pronounced these words, 'Shame! shame! a woman so beautiful to marry a man who has negro blood in his veins!'"