"Done!" she repeated, springing fiercely to her feet. "No need to ask what you have done! Was not this heart marble—harder than marble—ay, or granite—till you came? Did you not read it as you would an open book? Did you not strike the rock with a more powerful wand than that of Moses, and did not all the flood of life and love spring forth at your command? You never said in so many words: 'I love you.' Oh, no—you took care not to commit yourself; but could I not read it in every glance of your eye. Yes, deny it if you will, you did love me, until this fair-faced seraph—this 'stray angel,' as I heard you call her—came, and then, for the first new face, I was cast aside as worthless. I was too easy a conquest for this modern hero; and for this artful little hypocrite—for her pink cheeks, her blue eyes, and yellow hair—the heart that loves you ten thousand times more than she can ever do, is trampled under foot! But I tell you to beware, Louis Oranmore; for if I am a 'tigress,' as you often called me in my childhood, I can tear and rend in pieces all those who will cause my misery."
She looked like some beautiful fiend, in her fierce outburst of stormy passion; her face livid, save two dark purple spots on either cheek; her eyes flaming, blazing; her lips, white; her wild black hair falling like a vail of darkness around her white face.
"Minnette—dear Minnette!"—like a magic spell his low-toned words fell on her maddened spirit—"you are mistaken. I never loved you as you fancy; I admired your beauty. I might have loved you, but I well knew the fierce, jealous nature that lay smoldering in your heart, under the living coals of your passions. Minnette, the woman I love must be gentle and womanly, for that means all; the fawn, not the lioness, suits me. Extremes meet, they say; and my own nature is too hot, passionate, and fiery, ever to mate with a spirit like to itself. In Celeste, gentle, tender, and dove-like—sit still, Minnette, you must hear me out." He held her down, writhing in anguish, by the force of his stronger will. "In her, I say, I find all that I would ask of a woman. Therefore my heart was drawn toward her. Had I found the same qualities in you, I would have loved you, instead of her. And now, dear Minnette, forgive me if I have occasioned you pain; but for your own peace of mind, it was necessary that I should tell you this."
She was quivering, writhing in intense anguish, crouching in her seat in a strange, distorted attitude of utter despair. His eyes were full of deep pity as he gazed upon her.
"Minnette, do you forgive me?" he said, coming over and trying to raise her head.
"Oh, leave me—leave me!" was her reply, in a voice so full of intense suffering that he started.
"Only say you forgive me."
"Never! May God never forgive me if I do!" she cried, with such appalling fierceness that he quailed before her. "Leave me, I tell you!" she cried, stamping her foot, "leave me before I go mad!"
He quitted the room: and Minnette was alone, with her own uncontrolled passions for company. The agony of ages seemed to be concentrated into those moments; every fiber of her heart seemed tearing from its place, and lay quivering and bleeding in her bosom.