She might have been seventeen years of age—certainly not more. In stature she was tall, and with a form regally beautiful, splendidly developed, with a haughty grace peculiarly her own. Her face was perfectly oval: her complexion, naturally olive, had been tanned by sun and wind to a rich, clear, gipsyish darkness. Her hair, that hung in a profusion of long curls, was of jetty blackness, save where the sun fell on it, bringing out red rings of fire. Her large Syrian eyes, full of passion and power, were of the most intense blackness, now flashing with sparks of light, and anon swimming in liquid tenderness. Her high, bold brow might have become a crown—certainly it was regal in its pride and scorn. Her mouth, which was the only voluptuous feature in her face, was small, with full, ripe, red lips, rivaling in bloom the deep crimson of her dark cheeks.
Her dress was like herself—odd and picturesque, consisting of a short skirt of black silk, a bodice of crimson velvet, with gilt buttons. She held in one hand a black velvet hat, with a long, sweeping plume, swinging it gayly by the strings as she came toward them.
She was a strange, wild-looking creature, altogether; yet what would first strike an observer was her queenly air of pride, her lofty hauteur, her almost unendurable arrogance. For her unbending pride, as well as her surprising beauty, the haughty little lady had obtained, even in childhood, the title of "Queen of the Isle." And queenly she looked, with her noble brow, her flashing, glorious eyes, her dainty, curving lips, her graceful, statuesque form—in every sense of the word "a queen of noble Nature's crowning."
And Willard Drummond, passionate admirer of beauty as he was, what thought he of this dazzling creature? He leaned negligently still against the taffrail, with his eyes fixed on her sparkling, sunbright face, noting every look and gesture as one might gaze on some strange, beautiful creation, half in fear, half in love, but wholly in admiration. Yes, he loved her, or thought he did; and gazing with him on the moonlit waves, when the solemn stars shone serenely above him, he had told her so, and she had believed him. And she, wild, untutored child of nature, who can tell the deep devotion, the intense passion, the fiery, all-absorbing love for him that filled her impulsive young heart?
"Love was to her impassioned soul
Not, as to others, a mere part
Of her existence; but the whole—
The very life-breath of her heart."
As she advanced, Willard Drummond started up, saying, gayly:
"Welcome back, Miss Sibyl. I thought the sunlight had deserted us altogether; but you have brought it back in your eyes."
"How's your patient, Sibyl?" said Captain Campbell, who, not being in love, found Mr. Drummond's high-flown compliments very tiresome sometimes.
"Much worse, I am afraid," she answered in a peculiarly musical voice. "I do not think he will live to see the morrow's sun. His ravings are frightful to hear—some terrible crime seems to be weighing him down as much as disease."
"After all, the human soul is an awful possession for a guilty man," said Captain Campbell, thoughtfully. "Things can be smoothed over during life, but when one comes to die—"