She took it, but her fingers were like marble; and like marble was the cold smile that went in a spasm of pain across her lips. “Zulima, will you not speak to me?” Oh, what a flood of bitter waters did that gentle voice unlock in Zulima’s heart. Her limbs began to shake, her hands quivered like aspen leaves, and a look of unutterable distress fell upon her face. “To what end should I speak?” she said, in a low and husky voice. “I have no wish to reproach you, and what but reproaches can you expect from me.” A bitter smile disturbed the pallor of Daniel Clark’s face, and a bitter intonation was blended with the mournful cadence of his voice. “Reproaches, Zulima, are for slight wrongs; but slight or deep, I deserve none at your hands. While you—oh, woman, woman, how have you betrayed the deep love, the honor which I gave you in holy trust. Neither will _I_ reproach; but when I look upon your face, still young, full of beauty, and bearing the old look of innocence, it forces me to think of the vows you have broken, the mockery you have cast upon our marriage.” “Our marriage,” repeated Zulima. Again her lips were distorted with a smile mournful and bitter, and clasping her hands she wrung them nervously together. “Why do you smile thus? Why do you repeat thus bitterly the words that I have spoken?” said Clark, regarding her wild agitation with wonder. “When I speak of our marriage, you do not shrink or tremble as one who has profaned a holy rite, but your eye is full of scorn, your lips curl with bitter smiles. Zulima, are you indeed so lost that the mention of ties that bound us once, and that legally bind us yet, ties that you, unhappy woman, have broken and dishonored, can only awake a smile of scorn?” Zulima stood motionless, her hands clasped, her eyes dilating; the truth was struggling to her heart. “Speak to me, speak to me again,” she cried, extending her locked hands imploringly. “That marriage, you know, you know well, it was all false, all a deception. I never was your wife!” Mr. Clark drew back—he breathed with difficulty: the truth was breaking upon his soul also—the cruel, terrible truth. “Speak to me, speak to me,” cried Zulima, in a voice of thrilling anguish; “I never was your wife!” “The God of heaven, at whose altar we were united, can answer that you were my lawfully wedded wife, that you are so now!” A sharp cry broke from Zulima, she staggered forward a pace, and sat down upon the grass close by her child; covering her face with both hands, she bent it down to her knees, and remained thus motionless and absolutely without breath.