“Heavens! I must,” he groaned; “we are the sport of circumstances. Oh, my darling!” he continued, “you know my story, and my vengeance.”
“I know it all,” she whispered. “I would wish to die if I could die by your hand.”
“I will save you. Oh, love—oh, soul of mine—my arms are around you! You are watched—but watched by me.”
“You do not know,” she sighed. “Alas! your father’s voice must be obeyed, and your vengeance must be taken.”
“Fear not,” said he; “I will guard you.”
She answered nothing. Could she confide in his assurance? She could not. She thought with horror of the life before her. What could Brandon do? She could not imagine.
They stood thus in silence for a long time. Each felt that this was their last meeting, and each threw all life and all thought into the rapture of this long and ecstatic embrace. After this the impassable gulf must reopen. She was of the blood of the accursed. They must separate forever.
He kissed her. He pressed her a thousand times to his heart. His burning kisses forced a new and feverish life into her, which roused all her nature. Never before had he dared so to fling open all his soul to her; never before had he so clasped her to his heart; but now this moment was a break in the agony of a long separation—a short interval which must soon end and give way to the misery which had preceded it—and so he yielded to the rapture of the hour, and defied the future.
The moments extended themselves. They were left thus for a longer time than they hoped. Potts did not come. They were still clinging to one another. She had flung her arms around him in the anguish of her unspeakable love, he had clasped her to his wildly-throbbing heart, and he was straining her there recklessly and despairingly, when suddenly a harsh voice burst upon their ears.
“The devil!”