The heiress was seated near the open window, her rounded elbow, firm and polished as unveined marble, resting on the cushion of her chair, her head leaning on her hand, her lustrous eyes veiled by the silken lashes that curtained them; her whole attitude bespeaking the profoundest melancholy.
The planter gazed upon her with admiration, but it was admiration unmingled with love.
It was with the same feeling he would have experienced in looking at some gorgeous picture.
His eye was bewitched by the exquisite coloring, the perfect form; but his heart was untouched.
Nothing could be more complete than the contrast between the Spanish girl and the Octoroon.
Both were beautiful—both had eyes of deepest black, but the orbs of Cora Leslie were soft and pensive, while those of Camillia Moraquitos flashed with the burning flames of a southern clime.
Cora's oval cheeks were pale as the unsullied leaf of the water-lily; Camillia's glowed with a rich crimson blush, of that splendid hue, rarely seen save in the petals of the damask rose.
But each had offended the pride of the planter, and he determined that each should pay a bitter penalty for having dared to prefer another.
He told his suit and was rejected with scorn.
Nay, more, he saw that not only was he utterly indifferent to the Spanish girl—there was something beyond indifference in her manner—something even more powerful than scorn—there was hatred!