At this moment, even as Randolph, absorbed by the revelation, sits silent and pale, gazing upon the bended head of the old man,--at this moment look yonder, and behold the form of a woman, who with finger on her lip, stands motionless near the threshold. Randolph is not aware of her presence--the old man cannot see her, for there is agony like death in his heart, and his head is bowed upon his breast; but there she stands, motionless as though stricken into stone, by the broken words which she has heard. It is Eleanor Lynn. On the very threshold she was arrested by the deep tones of her father's voice,--she listened,--and for the first time heard the story of her mother's death. And now, stepping backward, her eye riveted on her father's form, she seeks to leave the room unobserved,--she reaches the threshold, when her father's voice is heard once more:-- "Ask me not for details, ask me not," he cried in broken tones, as once more he raised his convulsed countenance to the light "The author of this outrage was not a man, but a negro,--a demon in a demon's shape; and"--he smiled, but there was no merriment in his smile,--"and now you know why I left home, native land, all the associations which make life dear, seventeen years ago. Now you know why I hate the accursed race." As he spoke, Eleanor Lynn glided from the room. CHAPTER X. "YES, YOU WILL MEET HIM." As midnight drew near, Randolph was alone in his bedchamber,--a spacious chamber, magnificently furnished, and illumined by a single candle, which stood upon a rosewood table near the lofty bed. Seated in a chair, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and an opened letter in his hand, Randolph's eyes were glassy with profound thought. His face was very pale; a slight trembling of the lip, an occasional heaving of the chest, alone made him appear less motionless than a statue. The letter which he held was the one which Mr. Hicks had given him, some three hours before, but he did not seem to be occupied with its contents. "It look like a bridal chamber," he muttered, as his eye roved round the spacious apartment, "and this white couch like a bridal bed,"--a bitter smile crossed his face. "Think of it--the bridal bed of Eleanor Lynn and--the white slave!" And he relapsed into his reverie; or rather, into a train of thought, which had occupied him for two hours at least, while he sat silent and motionless in his chamber. Oh, dark and bitter thoughts--filling every vein with fire, and swelling every avenue of the brain with the hot pulsations of madness! The image of Eleanor, the story told two hours ago by Bernard Lynn, and the taint that corrupted the life-blood in his veins,--all these mingled in his thoughts, and almost drove him mad. "And from this labyrinth, what way of escape? Will Eleanor be mine, when she learns that I am of the accursed race of the wretch who first dishonored and then outraged her mother? And the father,--ah!"