"You're not in earnest, Loo?"
"I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?"
"You've spoken like one, who hasn't taken pains to reflect."
"Upon what?"
"Many things."
"Name them!"
"Well, for one--the way I love you."
She made no rejoinder.
"A love," he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; "a
love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It can end
only with my life. It could not end with _yours_."
There was a pause, but still no reply.
"'Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day--ay,
the same hour--I first saw you.
"I won't say it grew stronger as time passed. It could not. On my
first visit to your father's house--now six years ago--you may remember
that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with
you round the garden--while dinner was being got ready.
"You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in
beauty--as beautiful as you are at this moment.
"No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me
along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the
touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty
prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor
distance, nor yet _dissipation_, has been able to efface."
The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words
so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to
have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the
accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her
look!
Still did she keep silence.