velvety skin of the Creole. He became still paler, and uttered a hoarse
sigh.

"How this woman would be beloved," added Cecily, "had she an enemy, whom,
pointing out to her old tiger, she would say strike, and--"

"And he would strike," cried Jacques Ferrand, endeavoring to approach the
ends of her fingers to his withered lips.

"True, the old tiger would strike," said the Creole, placing her hand
softly on his.

"If you would love me," cried the wretch, "I believe I would commit a
crime."

"Hold, master," said Cecily, suddenly withdrawing her hand; "in your turn
go away, go away, I know you no more; you do not appear to me so ugly now
as before; go away."

She retired quickly from the wicket. The detestable creature knew how to
give to her gestures and to her last words an accent of truth so
incredible--her look, at once surprised and annoyed, seemed to express so
naturally her spite at having for a moment forgotten the ugliness of
Jacques Ferrand--that he, transported with frenzied hope, cried, clinging
to the bars of the wicket, "Cecily, return, command, I will be your tiger!"

"No, no, master," said Cecily, retreating still further from the wicket;
"and to lay the devil who tempts me--I am going to sing a song of my
country. Master, do you hear? without, the wind redoubles, the tempest is
unchained; what a fine night for two lovers, seated side by side near a