"Oh, if I might believe it!" she said, dashing back the falling hair off her pallid brow, "if I dared to dream that you spoke the truth. But no, no!" she cried, springing up and freeing herself from his clasp, "it is false—it is false as your own false heart! Listen, and let the name blight you where you stand. What of Christie?"
Her menacing eyes were glaring upon him as though she would read his very soul; but, prepared for her question, he neither started nor betrayed the slightest emotion.
"Christie, the island-girl—what of her?" he asked, quietly.
"What of her? Man, man! you will drive me mad! Do you not love her?"
"Love her—that little, uncultured child? Sibyl, you have lost your reason," he said, in a tone of well-feigned surprise and indignation. "What drove such an absurd thought into your head?"
"Oh, she told me so—she told me so!" wailed Sibyl, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples.
"Impossible! You must have dreamed it, Sibyl, She never could have told you anything like that."
"She did; and I could have slain her where she stood for the words; but she said them. And, Willard Drummond, do not deny it—it is true."
"It is not true!" he boldly answered, though for the first time during the interview his dark cheek grew crimson with shame.
"It is true—it must be. She would not have said it else. Oh, there was truth in her face as she spoke, and there is guilt in yours now. Willard Drummond, take care! I am desperate, and it is at your peril that you dare to trifle with me now."