"Because I would not have you resent that which, in Louisiana, is considered a justifiable prejudice. I pardon Augustus Horton as I pardon his sister Adelaide, who was once my friend."
"Oh, do not speak of her, Miss Leslie, my contempt—"
"Nay, Mr. Margrave! it is you who are mistaken in all this. You are a stranger here, and your noble conduct of to-day may compromise you in the eyes of every colonist in Louisiana. Your place is not here by the side of me, an Octoroon; you should be with Adelaide Horton, a high-born daughter of the European race."
"If nobility of race is to be judged of by the elevation of the soul, it is you, and not Miss Horton, who can claim the loftiest birth," replied Gilbert, with emotion.
"You deceive yourself, Mr. Margrave," said Cora; "Adelaide has a generous heart, and I know that in secret she regrets our broken friendship—you, above all others, should be indulgent to her faults."
"I?"
"Yes," replied Cora, her long black eyelashes drooping beneath the Englishman's ardent gaze; "amongst all her English admirers, there was one alone for whom she felt any real regard. Do you know whom I mean?"
"No, Miss Leslie, nor do I wish to know," answered Gilbert, with energy; "for amongst all the young girls who adorned the farewell ball given by Mrs. Montresor, there was one and one alone to whom my dazzled eyes turned as the star of the brilliant throng. Do you know whom I mean?"
Cora did not answer, but a vivid blush suffused her face at the young engineer's question.
"See," continued Gilbert, opening his sketch-book; "do you remember the bouquet which you left upon a side table in the ante-room. In the center of that bouquet bloomed this tiny blue flower, which we Englishmen call the forget-me-not. It is withered now. Say, Cora, can you forgive the hand which stole the blossom?"