'She is not dead,' said Mehalah, with a gleam of triumph in her sad face.
'No, but winged. The wretch will flutter along disabled. She will try to rise, and each effort will give her mortal agony, and grind the splintered bones together and make the blood bleed away. She will skim a little while above the water, but at length will fall into the waves and be washed ashore dead.'
'Yes,' said Mehalah; 'you will not kill, but wound—wound to the quick.'
'That is about it, Glory!'
'Let me repeat my request,' she said; 'allow me to attend to your brother. I must have someone, some thing, to pity and minister to.'
'You can minister to me.'
'So I do.'
'And you can pity me.'
'Pity you!' with scorn.
'Aye. I am to be pitied, for here am I doing all I can to win the heart of a perverse and stubborn girl, and I meet with nothing but contempt and hate. I am to be pitied. I am a man; I love you, and am defied and repulsed, and fled from as though I had the pestilence, and my house were a plague hospital.'