"Tell me, Miss Leslie," said Gilbert, as Augustus Horton left the deck, "why did you prevent my inflicting upon that man the chastisement which he so richly deserved? Why did you compel me to remain silent, and suffer you to be insulted with impunity?" "Because I would not have you resent that which, in Louisiana, is considered a justifiable prejudice. I pardon Augustus Horton as I pardon his sister Adelaide, who was once my friend." "Oh, do not speak of her, Miss Leslie, my contempt--" "Nay, Mr. Margrave! it is you who are mistaken in all this. You are a stranger here, and your noble conduct of to-day may compromise you in the eyes of every colonist in Louisiana. Your place is not here by the side of me, an Octoroon; you should be with Adelaide Horton, a high-born daughter of the European race." "If nobility of race is to be judged of by the elevation of the soul, it is you, and not Miss Horton, who can claim the loftiest birth," replied Gilbert, with emotion. "You deceive yourself, Mr. Margrave," said Cora; "Adelaide has a generous heart, and I know that in secret she regrets our broken friendship--you, above all others, should be indulgent to her faults." "I?" "Yes," replied Cora, her long black eyelashes drooping beneath the Englishman's ardent gaze; "amongst all her English admirers, there was one alone for whom she felt any real regard. Do you know whom I mean?" "No, Miss Leslie, nor do I wish to know," answered Gilbert, with energy; "for amongst all the young girls who adorned the farewell ball given by Mrs. Montresor, there was one and one alone to whom my dazzled eyes turned as the star of the brilliant throng. Do you know whom I mean?" Cora did not answer, but a vivid blush suffused her face at the young engineer's question. "See," continued Gilbert, opening his sketch-book; "do you remember the bouquet which you left upon a side table in the ante-room. In the center of that bouquet bloomed this tiny blue flower, which we Englishmen call the forget-me-not. It is withered now. Say, Cora, can you forgive the hand which stole the blossom?" The blush faded from the cheek of the Octoroon, and, clasping her hands entreatingly, she exclaimed with earnestness-- "Oh, Mr. Margrave, reflect! An idle word, idly spoken, may occasion evil of which you cannot dream. It is to your honor I appeal! You would not inflict new sorrow upon a heart already almost broken. What would that flower say? that in its brief hour of bloom and freshness Cora Leslie was admired. The flower has withered, and the hopes of my life have faded like the frail petals of that poor blossom." "No, Cora, no! The flower has but one meaning--says, 'I love you!'" "Me!" cried Cora, with an exclamation almost of terror. "But do you forget who I am? Do you forget that I am an Octoroon, the daughter of a slave?" "I forget all, but that I love you."