"To smooth the way for our departure, and to confide you to his hospitality." "Go, then," said Cora; "go, but without me. Engage our berths in an English vessel. We will leave Louisiana; but we will leave with my father. This evening you will let us know the result of your mission." "But if in the meantime--" "What can you fear? It is but for a few hours, and this evening we shall meet never to part again. See, here comes Toby to say that the carriage is ready. Farewell, Gilbert, till you return to tell us that all is happily arranged." "The carriage is ready, massa," said Toby, appearing at the top of the terrace steps. "Come, Gilbert; I will accompany you to the lower garden," said Cora. They descended the steps side by side, and traversed the winding pathway, followed by Toby. At the door of the carriage Gilbert Margrave clasped the Octoroon in his arms, and, pressing her to his heart, exclaimed with emotion, "Farewell, my beloved! Even this brief parting is pain and anguish to me. May Heaven bless and guard you!" There had been a silent spectator of the interview between Gilbert Margrave and Cora. Gerald Leslie had been standing behind the striped blinds in his apartment, which overlooked the terrace watching the meeting of his daughter and her lover. He saw them descend the terrace steps, and the thought that Cora had readily consented to depart. He heard the carriage wheels roll away upon the smooth gravel road, and the bitterness of his feelings utterly overcame him. "She is gone!" he exclaimed; "gone, without casting one regretful look upon the home she is leaving. She is glad to fly with this man; she loves him; she is his! Ungrateful girl! But what then, was it not my wish? She is saved at last. Thank Heaven for that! She is saved, and I am alone! I shall never see my child again." Overpowered by his grief he sunk into a chair, while his head fell forward on his clasped hands. He had remained thus for some moments, when the door behind him was gently opened, and a soft footstep stole toward him. He raised his head, and beheld his daughter kneeling at his feet. She twined her arms about his neck, and he clasped her to his heart with passionate emotion. "Cora," he exclaimed; "Cora, is it you?" "Dearest father, how could you think that your daughter would consent to depart without you?" "Alas, alas, my unhappy child!" murmured Gerald. "Ah, my father, why this terror, this agitation? What is it you fear?" "Nothing, nothing, Cora. Shall not I be here to guard and save you? My Cora, my darling, you love me then, you forgive me?" "Forgive you? My father, it is I who would ask forgiveness." Once more the planter strained her to his heart. "This moment repays me for all I have suffered," he exclaimed, "Oh, Heaven; I am too happy!" Then rising, with a gesture of terror, he cried, "Happy, did I say? Happy, when--hark!" He paused, clasping Cora in his arms, and listening intently.