at last, I have you in my power, at my mercy,
sure, safe, as ever cat had mouse! Oh! it is sweet--sweet--sweet!"

She has no uncertainty now. The man exclaiming sweet, is he who has
caused all her life's bitterness. The voice, no longer disguised, is
that of Richard Darke!

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT.

Wild thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostrophised, with not a word
to say in return. She knows it would be idle; but without this, her
very indignation holds her dumb--that and despair.

For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to delightful
exultation.

Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively:--"Do you
know who's talking to you? Or must I tell you, Nell? You'll excuse
familiarity in an old friend, won't you?" Receiving no response, he
continues, in the same sneering style: "Yes, an old friend, I say it;
one you should well remember, though it's some time since we met, and a
good way from here. To assist your recollection, let me recall an
incident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps 'twill be enough to
name the place and time? Wall, it was under a magnolia, in the State of
Mississippi; time ten o'clock of night, moonlight, if I rightly
remember, as now. It matters not the day of the month being different,
or any other trivial circumstance, so long as the serious ones are so.
And they are, thank God for it! Beneath the magnolia I knelt at your
feet, under this tree, which is a live-oak, you lie at mine."

He pauses, but not expecting reply. The woman, so tortured speaks not;
neither stirs she. The only _motion_ visible throughout her frame is
the swell and fall of her bosom--tumultuously beating.

He who stands, over well knows it is throbbing in pain. But no
compassion has he for that; on the contrary, it gives gratification;
again drawing from him the exultant exclamation--"Sweet--sweet!"

After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly as before:

"So, fair Helen, you perceive how circumstances have changed between us,
and I hope you'll have the sense to suit yourself to the change.
Beneath the Mississippian tree you denied me: here under the Texan,
you'll not be so inexorable--will you?"

Still no response.

"Well; if you won't vouchsafe an answer, I must be content to go without
it; remembering the old saw--`Silence consents.' Perhaps, ere long your
tongue will untie itself; when you've got over grieving for h