"Your death would not redeem it. What is your paltry life to me? Neither do I require it—the sacrifice I would have you make is easier. Give him up!"
"Oh! anything but that! Sibyl, that is worse than death!" said the stricken child-bride, in a fainting voice.
"Did you not say you would atone? Prove it now—give him up—it is my right, and I demand it. Promise."
"Oh, I cannot!—I cannot!" moaned Christie, shrinking down, as though she would never rise again.
"And this is your repentance—this, your atonement for what you have done?" said Sibyl, stepping back, and regarding her with superb scorn. "This, then, is the end of all your fine promises. Girl, I tell you, you dare not; it is at your peril you see him more. My claim is above yours. I warn, I insist, I demand you to give him up. It is my right, and you shall do it. What are you, little reptile, that you should stand in the path of Sibyl Campbell?"
"I am his wife!" arose to the lips of Christie. That little sentence she well knew would have silenced Sibyl's claim forever, but she remembered her promise in time, and was silent.
"Rise, girl, don't cower there at my feet," said Sibyl, stepping back in bitter contempt. "It is your place, it is true; but his love has ennobled you, since it has raised you to the rank of my rival. Am I to understand you promise your intimacy with him is at an end?"
"Miss Sibyl, I cannot. I love him!" And pale and sad, Christie rose and stood before her.
The blaze, the dark, scorching, flaming glance from those eyes of fire might have killed her.
"And you dare utter this to me?" she said, or rather hissed, through her tightly clenched teeth. "Audacious girl, do you not fear that I will strike you dead where you stand?"