"Hum—ha!" he muttered thoughtfully; "yes, she's by no means bad-looking."
"By no means bad-looking!" cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; "you cold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection in such a manner. She's an angel, a goddess—a siren—a—"
"You'll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in this way," said Mortimer, laughing.
"Can you tell me who she is?"
"No. But I can do more. I can tell you what she is."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your angel, your nymph, your goddess, your siren is—a slave."
"A slave?" exclaimed Gilbert.
"Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditary curse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head."
"But her skin is fairer than the lily."