Feliciana sprang from her knees and grasped him by the hand; “do not go from this spot the same man as you came to it. Wash yourself by prayer from the blood which you may have shed, and ask—ask her spirit to forgive you, if you offended it.”
Appadocca drew his hand quickly across his brow. “Feliciana, your are ungenerous, unkind: my—feelings—require—no—further laceration. Life and my miseries have already made me too, too well acquainted with anguish. Spare me, spare me the thought of an offended mother—the only—the only—the only—friend that I had in this bitter, bitter, world.”
“Say—say not so,” quickly rejoined Feliciana, still more melted by the grief of one who appeared always so indifferent. “You have still, still a friend. Oh fly, fly with me to some wilderness; there enjoy your thoughts, your silence, your feelings. I shall be your slave, your dog, that will gather the inkling of the wish from your very eyes. My fallucha is by the shore; Appadocca will you go?”
A pause ensued.
“No, no, Feliciana,” said Appadocca; “I shall not: lean not, good, good girl, upon a broken reed. To me all things, save one idea, are stale and indifferent. My life is gloomy, dark, and troublesome: my existence is already a heavy, heavy oppression. My soul, like the cumbrous tower, fell but once, it can never rise again. Your presence would create a new grief in me, for I could not see you love one whose blood was chilled.”
“I require no love—I require no love,” quickly rejoined Feliciana, “I shall be your slave.”
“That, I shall not endure; my idol is woman. I ought to worship, not she.”
“Still you will let me follow you?” eagerly inquired Feliciana.
“No, no, my career may still lie through blood,” answered Appadocca.