It was her work--the assurance of her disgrace--the offspring of her self-seeking and unwomanly behavior; and yet, as she looked, the blood rose gradually to her pale cheeks, and stained them with a deeper and yet deeper spot of red; her glance caught a spark from his, and her fragile and drooping figure seemed to dilate and grow stately, as if inspired by some burst of glorious music.
Bressant, in the mid-whirl and heat of his emotion, fell back upon the pillow, whence he had partly raised himself, trembling from head to foot.
"Is it love ?" he said, in a smothered tone that was scarcely more than a whisper.

He was beaten down and overawed by the might and grandeur of the passion which, growing in his own breast, had become a giant that swayed and swept all things before it.
"Yes--love!" said Sophie, in a voice like the soft ring of a silver trumpet.

Her heart was steadied and strengthened by what mastered him.
"Love--it is above every thing else.

It has brought me down so low--perhaps, through God's mercy, it is the path by which I may rise again.

You will guide me, dear ?" And, with a gesture of divine humility, she put her hand in his, and looked down, with the smile brightening mistily in her eyes.
At that moment--recalled, perhaps, by a chance similarity in position, gesture, or expression--came over him, like a sudden chill and darkness, the memory of his last interview with Cornelia..