Bigot stood still for a moment, stricken with awe at the spectacle
of this lovely woman weeping by herself in the secret chamber. A
look of something like pity stole into his eyes; he called her by
name, ran to her, assisted her to rise, which she did, slowly
turning towards him that weeping, Madonna-like face which haunts the
ruins of Beaumanoir to this day.
She was of medium stature, slender and lissome, looking taller
than she really was. Her features were chiselled with exquisite
delicacy; her hair of a raven blackness, and eyes of that dark
lustre which reappears for generations in the descendants of
Europeans who have mingled their blood with that of the aborigines
of the forest. The Indian eye is preserved as an heirloom, long
after all memory of the red stain has vanished from the traditions
of the family. Her complexion was pale, naturally of a rich olive,
but now, through sorrow, of a wan and bloodless hue--still very
beautiful, and more appealing than the rosiest complexion.
Caroline de St. Castin was an Acadienne of ancient and noble family,
whose head and founder, the Baron de St.
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