pe of happiness unnerves me.
Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer
shade.
My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest
flowers.
The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses
will keep them closed.
Come--come--come--come, love! Come--come--come!"

These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an
unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her
charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great
power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her
half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the
expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together
conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and,
half frenzied, he exclaimed:

"Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I
die! Oh, that I were mad!"

"Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching
the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative:

"If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I
should tremble and die.
If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale
cheek would become purple--my pale cheek would be on fire.
Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not
utter a word.
Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy
pardon.
'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love.
Angel, come--come to my heart--come--come--come!"

If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she
put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the
music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her
guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the
door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying
tone, "Oh, come--come--come!" It would be impossible to depict the
electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand
uttered a terrible cry.

"Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking
the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage.

Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if
she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to
Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice:

"