It was Ralph who spoke. Lina gasped for breath and wrung her hands desperately, like one who entreats for mercy, and feels that it is all in vain.
"Lina, answer me—are you there?"
"I am here," she replied, in a low, unnatural tone.
"Open the door, Lina—I want to speak to you."
"Ralph, I cannot!"
"Cannot! What ails you, Lina? Do open the door. Let me speak to you for a moment."
She staggered feebly to the door, then with a quick motion, the hurried resolve of which was strangely at variance with her previous hesitation, flung it open, and stood before the young man.
"Why, Lina, have you forgotten your promise?" he began eagerly; then, checked himself, as he raised his eyes to her face, and marked the wildness of her glance, and ghastly pallor of her cheek. "Lina, what is the matter? Are you ill? Tell me, Lina, what ails you?" He took her hands in his, with a manner in which the impetuosity of a youthful lover, and the kind, protecting air of a brother, were strangely mingled.
"Answer me, Lina, my own Lina."
But Lina had no words; when her eyes met his, the tears which during her lonely vigil had refused to flow, burst forth, and she buried her head in her hands, sobbing like a frightened child. Ralph folded his arms about her, and drew her back into the chamber, gathering her closely to his heart, as if to reassure her by his protecting presence. He did not question her again for several moments, but forcing her head gently down on his shoulder, he strove to soothe her with whispered words, until she gathered strength to check her tears, and drew herself from him, striving all the time to appear more composed.