Chapter Eighteen.
The Creole and Quadroon.
I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.
Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women.
“He wakes, ma’amselle!” half whispered a sweet voice.
My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thought it was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek—all before me!
“Is it a dream? No—she breathes; she moves; she speaks!”
“See! ma’amselle—he looks at us! Surely he is awake!”