“There is nothing to forgive,” was my cold answer.
“You are wounded! Is that nothing?”
“It is nothing; and if it were, the wound was not intended for me.”
He looked at me earnestly, as if pained and embarrassed by the manner with which I received his apologies; then he turned toward Cora.
“I hope my friend is not mistaken—that I have not injured you also.”
“No,” replied Cora, casting her eyes to the ground and blushing. “I was terrified; the feeling of blood: fear for Zana made me tremble, but I am not hurt.”
“Thank heaven!” exclaimed young Irving, and gathering up her azure scarf, he dropped it lightly over the shining gold of her hair. I watched him with burning indignation. His gentle interest in Cora, who was all unharmed, seemed a mockery to the stinging pain of my arm. I forgot how coldly I had received his sympathy, and like all impulsive but proud natures, fancied that he must read my feelings, not my actions, and judged him by the fancy.
“I must go home now, the morning is almost gone!” I said to Cora. “Are you well enough to move on?”
“No, I tremble yet,” she said sweetly; “your wound pains me more than it does yourself, Zana, it has taken away all my strength.”
“Then I will go alone,” was my curt rejoinder. “My arm bleeds.”