“I thought on that day,” he continued, “that I was accursed by man and heaven—that I, an Indian savage, was not accounted worthy to indulge in thoughts of love that had sprung up within my heart, like a pure flower, only to be blighted by the prejudices of race; that all my adoration for the fair and excellent, must be kept down by the accident of birth; and that whilst nurturing a holy passion, I must crush it out and stifle it for ever.”
“But now?” Her voice was low and tremulous.
“Now—all rests upon one word. Upon that word depends my happiness or misery now and for ever.”
“And what is it?”
“Do not ask it from me. It must come from your eyes—from your lips—from your heart!”
There was an eloquence that spoke the answer without a word being uttered.
It was the eloquence of love!
In another instant the lips of the white maiden touched those of her Indian lover.
From their rapturous embrace they were startled by a sound. It was a groan!
It came from the other side of Sansuta’s grave, behind which there was a clump of bushes.