blood
of all the De Beaurepaires,--pale as ashes with wrath, her purple
eyes flaring, and her whole panther-like body ready either to
spring or strike.

"'Slave! you dare to insult her, and before me! _Arriere,
miserable!_ or I soil my hand with your face!'

"And her hand was up with the word, up, up,--higher it seemed than
ever a hand was lifted before. And if he had hesitated one moment,
I believe it would have come down; and if it had, he would have
gone to her feet before it: not under its weight,--the lightning
is not heavy,--but under the soul that would have struck with it.
But there was no need: the towering threat and the flaming eye and
the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled three steps,
and nearly fell down. She followed him as he went, strong in that
moment as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving
Satan. He dared not, or rather he could not, stand before her: he
writhed and cowered and recoiled down the room while she marched
upon him. Then the driven serpent hissed as it wriggled away.

"'For all this, she too shall be turned out of Beaurepaire,--not
like me, but forever! I swear it, _parole de Perrin!_'

"'She shall never be turned out! I swear it, _foi de De
Beaurepaire!_'

"'You, too, daughter of Sa--'

"'_Tais toi, et sors a l'instant meme! Lache!_'

"The old lady moaning and trembling and all but fainting in her
chair; the young noble like destroying angel, hand in air, and
great eye scorching and withering; and the caitiff wriggling out
at the door, wincing with body and head, his knees knocking, his
heart panting, yet raging, his teeth gnashing, his cheek livid,
his eye gleaming with the fire of hell."

Too much of this sort of thing becomes meretricious; a man is never the
master of his subject, when he suffers himself to be carried away by it.
And though a fault of haste is pardonable, when lost in fine execution,
we must acknowledge that there is certainly something very "Frenchy" in
this scene,--a remark, though, which can hardly be considered as
derogatory, when we remember that altogether the most readable fiction
of the day is French itself. Our author is evidently a great admirer of
Victor Hugo, though he is no such careful artist in language: he seldom
closes with such tremendous subjects as that adventurous writer
attempts; but he has all