“It is useless, my lord, she knows nothing!”
“She must—she must—my child was six years old. At that age children know everything,” he answered eagerly, “and Zana was very forward, my bright Zana.”
He looked at me, till I shrunk from the feverish glow of his eyes. At last he spoke, and my very heart trembled beneath the sweet pathos of his voice.
“Zana, where is your mother? Tell me, child; I cannot die till she has spoken to me again.”
I bowed down my face, and answered only with bitter sobs.
“Is she dead? Is Aurora dead that you weep, but cannot speak?” he questioned, faintly.
“Alas! I do not know!” was my agonized reply.
“My child—Zana—and not know of her mother’s fate! what unnatural thing is this?” he cried, burying his face in the long sleeves of his gown. “This child is not my daughter, Turner; Aurora’s child could not have forgotten her mother thus.”
I struggled with myself—from my innermost soul I called on God to help me—to give me back the six years of life that had been wrested from my brain. My temples throbbed; my limbs shook with the effort; it seemed as if I were going mad.
Lord Clare lifted his face; his eyes swam in tears; his pale lips trembled. Laying both hands on my head, he spoke to me again—spoke so tenderly I thought my heart must break before he had done.