"No," said Septimius. "And yet, since first I knew you, there has been
something whispering me of harm, as if I sat near some mischief. There is
in me the wild, natural blood of the Indian, the instinctive, the animal
nature, which has ways of warning that civilized life polishes away and
cuts out; and so, Sibyl, never did I approach you, but there were
reluctances, drawings back, and, at the same time, a strong impulse to
come closest to you; and to that I yielded. But why, then, knowing that in
this grave lay the man you loved, laid there by my hand,--why did you aid
me in an object which you must have seen was the breath of my life?"

"Ah, my friend,--my enemy, if you will have it so,--are you yet to learn
that the wish of a man's inmost heart is oftenest that by which he is
ruined and made miserable? But listen to me, Septimius. No matter for my
earlier life; there is no reason why I should tell you the story, and
confess to you its weakness, its shame. It may be, I had more cause to
hate the tenant of that grave, than to hate you who unconsciously avenged
my cause; nevertheless, I came here in hatred, and desire of revenge,
meaning to lie in wait, and turn your dearest desire against you, to eat
into your life, and distil poison into it, I sitting on this grave, and
drawing fresh hatred from it; and at last, in the hour of your triumph, I
meant to make the triumph mine."

"Is this still so?" asked Septimius, with pale lips: "or did your fell
purpose change?"

"Septimius, I am weak,--a weak, weak girl,--only a girl, Septimius; only
eighteen yet," exclaimed Sibyl. "It is young, is it not? I might be
forgiven much. You know not how bitter my purpose was to you. But look,
Septimius,--could it be worse than this? Hush, be still! Do not stir!"