'Oh! that feminine word from thy mouth, dear Pierre:—that she, that she!'
Pierre sat silent, fanning her.
'Oh, I want none in the world but thee, my brother—but thee, but thee! and, oh God! am I not enough for thee? Bare earth with my brother were all heaven for me; but all my life, all my full soul, contents not my brother.'
Pierre spoke not; he but listened; a terrible, burning curiosity was in him, that made him as heartless. But still all that she had said thus far was ambiguous.
'Had I known—had I but known it before! Oh bitterly cruel to reveal it now. That she! That she!'
She raised herself suddenly, and almost fiercely confronted him.
'Either thou hast told thy secret, or she is not worthy the commonest love of man! Speak, Pierre,—which?'
'The secret is still a secret, Isabel.'
'Then is she worthless, Pierre, whoever she be—foolishly, madly fond!—Doth not the world know me for thy wife?—She shall not come! 'Twere a foul blot on thee and me. She shall not come! One look from me shall murder her, Pierre!'
'This is madness, Isabel. Look: now reason with me. Did I not before opening the letter, say to thee, that doubtless it was from some pretty young aunt or cousin?'
'Speak quick—a cousin?'
'A cousin, Isabel.'
'Yet, yet, that is not wholly out of the degree, I have heard. Tell me more, and quicker! more! more!'
'A very strange cousin, Isabel; almost a nun in her notions. Hearing of our mysterious exile, she, without knowing the cause, hath yet as mysteriously vowed herself ours—not so much mine, Isabel, as ours, ours—to serve us; and by some sweet heavenly fancying, to guide us and guard us here.'
