“No, no,” he cried passionately, and with his eyes flashing; “slave to you no more; I tell you, woman, all is over between us. For the few hours left to me, let me be in peace.”
The veil was slowly drawn aside, and he clapped his hands to his temples and bent forward, gazing at his visitor.
“Cornel!” he muttered—“Cornel!—No, no! It is a dream.”
He shook his head, and passed his hand across his eyes, to try and sweep away the mist that was gathering in his brain.
“No, no,” he muttered again, in a low tone; “a dream—a dream.”
“No,” came softly to his ears, “it is not a dream, Armstrong. It is I—Cornel.”
“Why have you come?” he cried, roused by her words, and staggering up to grasp the mantelpiece and save himself from falling.
“To try and save you,” she said sadly. “Armstrong, you are going to fight this man?”
He was silent. The dreamy feeling was coming back.
“You do not deny it. Armstrong—brother—companion of my childhood—you must not, you shall not do this wicked thing. Think of it. Your life against his. The shame—the horror of the deed.”