“One minute, Zana! Tell me, child, what is it that makes you turn white and shiver so, when I speak as I did now of your mother?”
“I do not know!” I replied, looking upward, with anxiety. “The cold is here at my heart, I do not know why.”
“Do you remember your mother? Now that you are well, something of the past should come back to you. Child, make an effort—that mother—what has become of her?”
I only shuddered—but had no reply to give; I could feel, but all was blank and blackness to my thoughts.
Turner saw my distress, and his own become more and more visible. He looked upon the ground and began muttering to himself, a habit that he had when very much perplexed. His thoughts reached me in disjointed snatches, but I dwelt upon them long after.
“How can I send him word? What can I say? Even proof of her own identity is wanting—proof that would satisfy him. Besides, his anxiety was for her—poor thing—even more than the child. If she could but be made to remember. Zana, Zana!” he burst forth, grasping my arm, and looking imploringly into my face, “struggle with this apathy of mind—strive, think—tell me, child, tell me something that I can get for a clue! Tell me if you can—try, try, my pretty Zana, and you shall have troops of children to play with. Tell me, where was it that you parted with your mother?”
I did make an effort to remember. My veins chilled; my cheeks grew cold as ice; I lifted my finger upward and pointed to a bank of clouds rolling in fleecy whiteness over us.
“Is that all?” exclaimed Turner, despairingly.
I could not speak, my lips seemed frozen. I sat like a marble child upon the back of my pony; everything around me had turned to snow once more.
Tears rolled down Turner’s cheeks, great, cold tears, that looked like hail-stones—they made me shiver afresh.