“The stranger threw on her, as she bent before him, one of those looks that, but her own, no mortal eye had yet encountered unappalled. Its expression seemed only to inspire a higher feeling of devotedness in the victim. Perhaps an involuntary sentiment of terror mingled itself with that expression, as this beautiful being sunk on her knees before her writhing and distracted enemy; and, by the silent supplication of her attitude, seemed to implore him to have mercy on himself. As the lightnings flashed around her,--as the earth trembled beneath her white and slender feet,--as the elements seemed all sworn to the destruction of every living thing, and marched on from heaven to the accomplishment of their purpose, with _Væ victis_ written and legible to every eye, in the broad unfolded banners of that resplendent and sulphurous light that seemed to display the _day of hell_--the feelings of the devoted Indian seemed concentrated on the ill-chosen object of their idolatry alone. Her graduating attitudes beautifully, but painfully, expressed the submission of a female heart devoted to its object, to his frailties, his passions, and his very crimes. When subdued by the image of power, which the mind of man exercises over that of woman, that impulse becomes irresistibly humiliating. Immalee had at first bowed to conciliate her beloved, and her spirit had taught her frame that first inclination. In her next stage of suffering, she had sunk on her knees, and, remaining at a distance from him, she had trusted to this state of prostration to produce that effect on his heart which those who love always hope _compassion_ may produce,--that illegitimate child of love, often more cherished than its parent. In her last efforts she clung to his hand--she pressed her pale lips to it, and was about to utter a few words--her voice failed her, but her fast dropping tears _spoke_ to the hand which she held,--and its grasp, which for a moment convulsively returned hers, and then flung it away, answered her.