"All what?" asked Craig.
"No matter," replied Augustus Horton; and, without another word to the lawyer, he left the apartment and passed once more through the office where Paul Lisimon was seated.
This time it was with a glance of intense malignity that he regarded the young man, who, scarcely conscious of his presence, sat with his head bent over his work.
"So," exclaimed the planter, when he found himself alone; "I thought that you were an iceberg, Camillia Moraquitos, and that the burning breath of passion had never melted your frozen nature. I never dreamt that I had a rival; but the mystery is solved. This Mexican, this nameless dependent on your father's bounty, is doubtless he for whom you scorn the proudest suitors New Orleans can offer. I should have known that a woman is never utterly indifferent to a man's attentions save when she loves another. No matter, Camillia, you will find it no trifle to brave the hatred of Augustus Horton. My rival is younger and handsomer than I; it would be hopeless to attempt to win her love while he is by to sue and be preferred; but before the year is out, I will have thrust him from my pathway as I would an insolent slave on my plantation."
CHAPTER XI.
PAUL LISIMON'S RUIN IS PLOTTED BY HIS ENEMIES.
From the hour in which Augustus Horton first looked upon the noble face and form of Paul Lisimon, he entertained for the young Mexican that deadly and unrelenting hatred which jealousy alone can nourish.
Be it distinctly understood, the planter did not love Camillia Moraquitos.
Lovely as was the Spanish girl, there was one who, in the eyes of Augustus, was yet lovelier; and that one was Cora, the daughter of Gerald Leslie, and the hapless quadroon slave, Francilia.
Cora, the Octoroon!