"You want her for yourself," said Vesper, suddenly striking him a smart blow across the face.
The Acadien sprang forward, his burly frame trembled, his hot breath enveloped Vesper's face as he stood angrily regarding him. Then he turned on his heel, and pressed his handkerchief to his bleeding lips.
"I will not strike you," he mumbled, "for you do not understand. I, too, have loved and been unhappy."
The glance that he threw over his shoulder was so humble, so forgiving, that Vesper's heart was touched.
"I ask your pardon, Agapit,—you have worried me out of my senses," and he warmly clasped the hand that the Acadien extended to him.
"Come," said Agapit, with an adorable smile. "Follow me. You have a generous heart. You shall see your Rose."
Agapit knocked softly at his cousin's door, then, on receiving permission, entered with a reverent step.
Vesper had never been in this little white chamber before. One comprehensive glance he bestowed on it, then his eyes came back to Rose, who had, he knew without being told, spent the whole night on her knees before the niche in the wall, where stood a pale statuette of the Virgin.
This was a Rose he did not know, and one whose frozen beauty struck a deadly chill to his heart. He had lost her,—he knew it before she opened her lips. She seemed not older, but younger. The look on her face he had seen on the faces of dead children; the blood had been frightened from her very lips. What was it that had given her this deadly shock? He was more than ever determined to know, and, subduing every emotion but that of stern curiosity, he stood expectant.