in the records of her past; she hesitated ene instant whether she should not render herself up to his utmost abhorrence, that by this means, since none other could avail, he would be parted from her fate for evermore. Almost she chose the sacrifice; she had strength far passing that of women, and she had the generous self-abandonment of a nature which scomed self-pity, and—once bending to love—loved nobly. She was silent; then as she looked up and saw the gaze wherewith he watched that silence which wrote on her a condemnation deadlier to him than words could ever have uttered, her courage forsook her, she had no force to yield herself up to his hatred and his loathing; to let him believe this of her was to let him be made desolate by a lie, and all the regal temper of her race arose and refused to bear falsely the yoke of shame even to save him, even to do towards him what she deemed her duty and his defence. She lifted her head, and looked him once again fully in the eyes, calmly, unflinchingly, though a flush of warmth came over her face.
"Nothing—in your sense. But in mine much."
"Thank God!—thank God! Against the world, against all destiny, ay, even against yourself, you SHALL be mine!"
