"I am not Ellen Halloway:
they said so; but it is not true. My husband was Reginald
Morton: but he went for a soldier, and was killed; and
I never saw him more."
"Reginald Morton! What mean you, woman?--What know you
of Reginald Morton?" demanded Wacousta, with frightful
energy, as, leaning over the shrinking form of Clara, he
violently grasped and shook the shoulder of the unhappy
maniac.
"Stop; do not hurt me, and I will tell you all, sir,"
she almost screamed. "Oh, sir, Reginald Morton was my
husband once; but he was kinder than you are. He did not
look so fiercely at me; nor did he pinch me so."
"What of him?--who was he?" furiously repeated Wacousta,
as he again impatiently shook the arm of the wretched
Ellen. "Where did you know him?--Whence came he?"
"Nay, you must not be jealous of poor Reginald:" and, as
she uttered these words in a softening and conciliating
tone, her eye was turned upon those of the warrior with
a mingled expression of fear and cunning. "But he was
very good and very handsome, and generous; and we lived
near each other, and we loved each other at first sight.
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