But laughs or sings or moans or weeps,
  She turned,—­and on her breast and brow
  I saw the tint that seemed not won
  From kisses of New England sun;
  I saw on brow and breast and hand
  The olive of a sunnier land! 
  She turned,—­and lo! within her eyes
  The starlight of Italian skies!

  Most dreams are dark, beyond the range
  Of reason; oft we cannot tell
  If they be born of heaven or hell;
  But to my soul it seems not strange,
  That, lying by the summer sea,
  With that dark woman watching me,
  I slept, and dreamed of Italy!

THE PROFESSOR’S STORY.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE PERILOUS HOUR.

Up to this time Dick Venner had not decided on the particular mode and the precise period of relieving himself from the unwarrantable interference which threatened to defeat his plans.  The luxury of feeling that he had his man in his power was its own reward.  One who watches in the dark, outside, while his enemy, in utter unconsciousness, is illuminating his apartment and himself so that every movement of his head and every button on his coat can be seen and counted, especially if he holds a loaded rifle in his hand, experiences a peculiar kind of pleasure, which he naturally hates to bring to its climax by testing his skill as a marksman upon the object of his attention.

Besides, Dick had two sides in his nature, almost as distinct as we sometimes observe in those persons who are the subjects of the condition known as double consciousness.  On his New England side he was cunning and calculating, always cautious, measuring his distance before he risked his stroke, as nicely as if he were throwing his lasso.  But he was liable to intercurrent fits of jealousy and rage, such as the light-hued races are hardly capable of conceiving,—­blinding paroxysms of passion, which for the time overmastered him, and which, if they found no ready outlet, transformed themselves into the more dangerous forces that worked through the instrumentality of his cool craftiness.

He had failed as yet in getting any positive evidence that there was any relation between Elsie and the schoolmaster other than such as might exist unsuspected and unblamed between a teacher and his pupil.  A book, or a note, even, did not prove the existence of any sentiment.  At one time he would be devoured by suspicions, at another he would try to laugh himself out of them.  And in the mean while he followed Elsie’s tastes as closely as he could, determined to make some impression upon her,—­to become a habit, a convenience, a necessity,—­whatever might aid him in the attainment of the one end which was now the aim of his life.

It was to humor one of her tastes already known to the reader, that he said to her one morning,—­“Come, Elsie, take your castanets, and let us have a dance.”