Julian rose from the place that he had occupied. Horace neither
moved nor spoke. His head was on his breast: the traces of tears
on his cheeks owned mutely that she had touched his heart. Would
he forgive her? Julian passed on, and approached Mercy's chair.
In silence he took the hand which hung at her side. In silence he
lifted it to his lips and kissed it, as her brother might have
kissed it. She started, but she never looked up. Some strange
fear of discovery seemed to possess her. "Horace?" she whispered,
timidly. Julian made no reply. He went back to his place, and
allowed her to think it was Horace.
The sacrifice was immense enough--feeling toward her as he
felt--to be worthy of the man who made it.
A few minutes had been all she asked for. In a few minutes she
turned toward them again. Her sweet voice was steady once more;
her eyes rested softly on Horace as she went on.
"What was it possible for a friendless girl in my position to do,
when the full knowledge of the outrage had been revealed to me?
"If I had possessed near and dear relatives to protect and advise
me, the wretches into whose hands I had fallen might have felt
the penalty of the law.
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