“He has broken prison; he escaped last night.”
Mr. Clark staggered. The color left his lip, and he leaned heavily on the back of a chair. “My poor, poor wife! will her trials never have an end?” he exclaimed with deep feeling, and, turning hastily, he left the counting-room.
“It will be some time before he acknowledges her now,” said Ross, in a low voice, to his partner. “See how his step wavers.”
“That may waver, but his pride never will,” was the low reply.
“Never!” said Campbell.
And he was right. Poor, poor Zulima!
CHAPTER II.
Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.—Othello.