With a slight scream the terrified child fled from this prophetess of evil toward the sitting-room, where she heard the sound of high words. She opened the door and hurried in. And this was what she saw: Her uncle standing on the corner of the hearth, with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his head leaning on his hand, whose fingers were clutched into his black hair; his starting black eyes staring down upon the floor; his black brows knitted, his teeth clenched, his face pallid with suppressed passion. Her aunt, with her white dress and yellow hair in wild disorder, as if her own desperate hands had rent and torn them, was raging up and down the floor like a tigress in her cage, pouring forth all the gall and venom of her jealous fury, in words that might never be forgiven or forgotten. Even the child intuitively perceived this, and feared that the man, stung to madness by the woman’s venomed tongue, might be driven to some rash act, fatal to them both. She looked, shuddering, from one to the other. It was terrible to see so fragile a creature as Eusebie in the power of such a tremendous passion, that seemed as if it must shrivel her frame as a cobweb in a flame. But it was more terrible to see in Marcel’s whole aspect the chained devil that might break loose in destroying frenzy at any moment. Full of fear and horror, the child crept trembling to the man’s side, put her arms around his waist, which she could just reach, looked up piteously in his face and whispered, in her coaxing tone: “Uncle, uncle, uncle.” “My little angel,” he murmured in reply, as his stern dark face softened and brightened. “Come away from that man this instant, Gloria,” cried Eusebie, stopping in her wild walk and stamping with fury. “Come away from him, I command you! He is not your uncle! You shall not call him uncle! He is a traitor and a villain! Come away, I say!” The child did not obey; she could not move; she was half paralyzed by fear and horror, and more likely to sink than to stand. The man put his arm around her, and drew her closer to him. The woman stamped with fury. “Let my niece go, you caitiff!” she screamed. He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and glared at her, while his face darkened and hardened. The terrified child—terrified for others, not for herself—pressed closely to him, as if, in extremity, she would hold him back by her own baby strength, and moaned, coaxingly: “Uncle, uncle, uncle dear.” Again his face changed; he stooped towards her and she laid her cheek against his lips. “Come away from that man, or I will tear you from him! He is not your uncle! He is no kin to you! He is nothing to you! No! I thank Heaven that not one drop of his false, black blood runs in the veins of any one belonging to me! I have not even a child! Ha! ha! I know the reason! Fiends are not permitted to be fathers!” hissed the woman, with all the hate and scorn that Satan could cast into her face and voice.