"Shall I tell you?" she asked gravely, lifting her flashing eyes and looking him full in the face. "Yes." "Heaven forgive me if I wrong you, Augustus Horton, but some secret instinct tells me that you were associated with that pitiful wretch, Silas Craig, in the plot which brought disgrace upon the name of one--" "Who is very dear to you! Is it not so, Donna Camillia?" "Yes," she answered, proudly, "I have never before confessed my love to a mortal. I confess it now to you. It will at least prove my belief in his innocence." "Mr. Paul Lisimon is a very happy man to possess so fair a defender," said Augustus, with studied sarcasm; "no doubt the escaped felon, the runaway thief, will return to New Orleans ere long to claim his bride, though I fear that the very first hour that he shows his face in this city he will find himself handcuffed and carried back to jail. In the meantime, I withdraw all pretensions to your hand. I cannot hope for success against such a rival." He bowed haughtily, and withdrew, laughing bitterly. In the ante-room without, he found the negro, Tristan, lying on an embroidered rug, close against the boudoir door. "Dog!" exclaimed Augustus; "You have been listening?" "Do not be angry, massa, with the poor nigger. What if the dog can help you?" "Help me?" "Yes, dogs are sometimes useful. Have you ever seen a bloodhound hunt down a runaway slave, eh, massa? Ah! you have seen that. Many a time, I dare say, many a time have set the dogs on yourself to capture your lost property. There are human bloodhounds, massa, who can hunt down an enemy as the dog hunts the poor slave. Your enemy is Tristan's enemy too. Say, massa, shall we work together?" The planter looked at the negro with a glance of contempt. "What can we have in common?" he said, scornfully. "Love, massa, love and hate! We both love the same woman, we both hate the same man." Augustus laughed aloud, "You--you love Camillia Moraquitos?" he exclaimed, with consummate disdain. "And why not?" cried the negro, striking himself upon the breast; "the heart within is of the same form, though the skin is of another color. I love her, love her, not as you white men love--but with the passionate fury of the African, which is stronger than death or fate. A jealous fever, which is close akin to hate and murder. I love her, and I know that she would look with loathing on this black face. I know that she can never be mine--but she shall not be his. No, no! I could better bear to see her wedded to you, for she would not love you. She would pine and die, and I would kill myself upon her grave, and know that she never blest the man she loved. Say, massa, shall I help you?" Augustus Horton gazed at the negro for some moments, with a look of mingled surprise and disdain. There was something almost terrific in the fiery energy of the African. Something, which in its terror approached almost to sublimity. "Shall I serve you, massa?" said Tristan.