Yes, the fatal word which branded this lovely and innocent being is contained in those three syllables. She was an octoroon, removed in the eighth degree from the African race, with a skin purely white as the tint of the lilies sleeping upon the lakes of her native Louisiana. One drop of the blood of a slave ran in her veins, poisoned her inmost life, and stamped her with the curse of Cain.
She was an Octoroon!
Augustus Horton knew this. He knew also, that Gerald Leslie was a ruined man; and he waited his time.
Cora had inspired in the proud heart of the planter one of those all-absorbing passions, which, in a bad man's heart, resemble the storm and tempest. They rage but to destroy. At any price, even at the price of his own soul as well as hers, she must be his.
The insult she had inflicted upon him in dismissing him from her presence had infuriated and humiliated him, but it had not abated one spark of the wild ardor of his guilty passion; notwithstanding this he was determined upon becoming the husband of Camillia Moraquitos.
The reader is already acquainted with the laxity of Louisianian morals. The wealthy Creole thought there could be no shame to the Octoroon in becoming his mistress. What was she but a creature of the inferior race, born to obey her master, the white man? With Camillia's fortune, added to his own ample wealth, Augustus Horton would have been one of the richest men in New Orleans. But the planter felt that he had discovered his real and only rival in the person of Paul Lisimon, the Mexican.
He was not slow to act upon this conviction. Early upon the morning after his first encounter with Paul, he entered the office in which the young man was seated, and asked to see Silas Craig.
Paul Lisimon raised his eyes, and recognized one of the most constant admirers of Camillia Moraquitos. But it was with a glance of supreme indifference that the Mexican regarded his rival. Augustus Horton felt the sting of that careless look; it was the glance of one who, secure in the affection of her he loves, is incapable of jealousy.
"Mr. Craig is within?" he inquired, addressing himself especially to Paul, though a colored lad at a desk near was the person who answered all inquiries and ushered the clients into Silas Craig's office.
"He is," answered Paul, quietly, dropping his eyes upon his work, and not lifting them as he spoke; "Marcus, take this gentleman's card to your master."