“Yes, Felice, there is a story in your life! I can save you.”
“Save me!” exclaimed the girl.
“Yes, and will! Listen to me.” In gentle accents he recounted to her there in the stillness, with the pulsing music of the viols beating and throbbing in her ears like muffled drums, the story of Dianthe Lusk as we have told it here. At the close of the tale the white-faced girl turned to him in despair the more eloquent because of her quietness.
“Did Reuel know that I was a Negress?”
“No; no one recognized you but myself.”
She hid her face in her hands.
“Who ever suffered such torture as mine?” she cried, bitterly. “And there is no rest out of the grave!” she continued.
“Yes, there is rest and security in my love! Felice, Dianthe, I have learned to love you!”
She sprang from his touch as if stung.
He continued: “I love you better than all in the world. To possess you I am prepared to prove false to my friend—I am prepared to save you from the fate that must be yours if ever Reuel learns your origin.”