“Rave on! be abusive, scornful, insulting as you please. But I tell you, arrogant woman, that he whom you abuse, insult, and scorn will be your husband yet.” “And I tell you, insolent man!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet with all the fire of her nature burning in her cheeks, and blazing in her eyes, “I tell you that, wronged, suspected, proscribed, outcast as I may be; and add to that, poor, friendless, ill, persecuted, desolate as I may be, I could not fall so low as to become the wife of the wretch you are. I repel your pretensions with scorn and loathing. Begone!” He gazed at her in speechless amazement. Was this incarnate storm, his ward? the dignified, self-restraining, self-governing Miss Seabright? Yes, the violent passions of her nature, restrained for many years, had now burst the bonds of moral power. The volcanic tide of fire that had ebbed and flowed, and been repressed through all this scene, had now broken forth in appalling power. Her form was erect—her nostrils dilated—her brow was crimson, her eyes blazed and darkened, and blazed and darkened with terrific rapidity. “Begone!” she thundered; “out of my sight, or by the Heaven that made me, I will summon my slaves and have you thrust forth with contumely from my gates!” Her hand was on the bell, her insane purpose was indubitable. With a gesture of desperation he rushed from the room. She gazed after him until he had closed the door. She stood motionless a long, long time, while the tide of fire ebbed; then, sinking with the reaction of the exhaustion and self-reproach, she covered her face with her hands, murmuring in heart-broken tones, “God pity me! God forgive me! What a nature is mine! With a heart and bosom torn, tortured, convulsed by storms of ferocious anger, scorn, and pride, yet with a spirit brooding highly, calmly over all—as above the clouds, and thunder, and lightning of the earth shine the holy stars of heaven.” CHAPTER XXXVI. LIGHT ON THE ISLAND. Her wretched brain gave way, And she became a wreck at random driven, Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven. Long remained Miss Seabright with her head bowed upon her hand in bitter thought. Twice a servant came and announced dinner without her seeing or hearing him. The third time, when he approached and spoke close to her ear, she raised her head languidly and said: “Ask Miss Joe to dine without me.” And when Miss Joe herself came in with anxious inquiries about her health, and affectionate offers of tea and toast and jellies, she answered, with a bitter smile: “Oh, be easy, dear friend; a little fasting will not hurt my flesh and blood!” Day waned, and still she maintained her silent and thoughtful posture. Night came, and a servant entered with candles. The glare of light aroused her, and, looking up, she saw the dark face of the man turned ashen gray with fear. “What is the matter, Cæsar?”