“Look on me now, Miss Colleton—­look on me now, and while you gaze upon features once sufficiently well known to your glance, let your memory but retrace the few years when it was your fortune, and my fate, to spend a few months in Gwinnett county.  Do you remember the time—­do you remember that bold, ambitious man, who, at that time, was the claimant for a public honor—­who was distinguished by you in a dance, at the ball given on that occasion—­who, maddened by wine, and a fierce passion which preyed upon him then, like a consuming fire, addressed you, though a mere child, and sought you for his bride, who—­but I see you remember all!”

“And are you then Creighton—­Mr. Edward Creighton—­and so changed!” And she looked upon him with an expression of simple wonder.

“Ay, that was the name once-but I have another now.  Would you know me better—­I am Guy Rivers, where the name of Creighton must not again be spoken.  It is the name of a felon—­of one under doom of outlawry—­whom all men are privileged to slay.  I have been hunted from society—­I can no longer herd with my fellows—­I am without kin, and am almost without kind.  Yet, base and black with crime—­doomed by mankind—­banished all human abodes—­the slave of fierce passions—­the leagued with foul associates, I dared, in your girlhood, to love you; and, more daring still, I dare to love you now.  Fear not, lady—­you are Edith Colleton to me; and worthless, and vile, and reckless, though I have become, for you I can hold no thought which would behold you other than you are—­a creature for worship rather than for love.  As such I would have you still; and for this purpose do I seek you now.  I know your feeling for this young man—­I saw it then, when you repulsed me.  I saw that you loved each other, though neither of you were conscious of the truth.  You love him now—­you would not have him perish—­I know well how you regard him, and I come, knowing this, to make hard conditions with you for his life.”

“Keep me no longer in suspense—­speak out, Mr. Creighton”—­she cried, gaspingly.

“Rivers—­Rivers—­I would not hear the other—­it was by that name I was driven from my fellows.”

“Mr. Rivers, say what can be done—­what am I to do—­money—­thanks, all that we can give shall be yours, so that you save him from this fate.”

“And who would speak thus for me?  What fair pleader, fearless of man’s opinion—­that blights or blesses, without reference to right or merit—­would so far speak for me!”

“Many—­many, Mr. Rivers—­I hope there are many.  Heaven knows, though I may have rejected in my younger days, your attentions, I know not many for whom I would more willingly plead and pray than yourself.  I do remember now your talents and high reputation, and deeply do I regret the unhappy fortune which has denied them their fulfilment.”