She had so wrought upon him that when he left the cell he could not dismiss her from his thoughts. To say he was in love would be making use of too strong a term; he was fascinated, even as people are said to be fascinated by the piercing eye of the serpent.
His eyes were dull and reddened through want of sleep when he again approached the cell in which Laura Stanbridge was confined.
He had of late visited her several times in the day, and whenever he came he found her always reading.
On this occasion he opened the door softly. She pretended not to hear him.
He gazed upon her with a feeling that almost amounted to veneration. Her pale face and her eyes glowing ardently made her resemble a virgin saint at her devotions.
He was touched, and his countenance was expressive of pity, which, to say the truth, was the index of his thoughts.
He grew more sad when he remembered that, perhaps, in a few weeks she might have to wear a felon’s dress and endure a felon’s doom.
This thought made him shudder. He fancied that he saw her striving to soar above the shame and ignominy—saw her dragged back into the abyss by the base drudgeries and foul companionship of infamous and base women.
“Oh!” he murmured, “how is it possible to avoid the law? How can she be rescued from her impending doom?”
He remained silent and motionless, still gazing at her sorrowfully.