She
saw what she had never beheld before indeed, but the meaning of which no
woman ever yet mistook. It was her work--the assurance of her
disgrace--the offspring of her self-seeking and unwomanly behavior; and
yet, as she looked, the blood rose gradually to her pale cheeks, and
stained them with a deeper and yet deeper spot of red; her glance caught
a spark from his, and her fragile and drooping figure seemed to dilate
and grow stately, as if inspired by some burst of glorious music.
Bressant, in the mid-whirl and heat of his emotion, fell back upon the
pillow, whence he had partly raised himself, trembling from head to
foot.
"Is it love?" he said, in a smothered tone that was scarcely more than a
whisper. He was beaten down and overawed by the might and grandeur of
the passion which, growing in his own breast, had become a giant that
swayed and swept all things before it.
"Yes--love!" said Sophie, in a voice like the soft ring of a silver
trumpet. Her heart was steadied and strengthened by what mastered him.
"Love--it is above every thing else. It has brought me down so
low--perhaps, through God's mercy, it is the path by which I may rise
again. You will guide me, dear?"
And, with a gesture of divine humility, she put her hand in his, and
looked down, with the smile brightening mistily in her eyes.
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