Louis thought she spoke very strangely, and he looked earnestly at her glittering eyes.
“I am glad of it!” he exclaimed—“he is a villain, but I am glad he is escaped. But you, Mittie—you should not have done this. How could you do it? Did Arthur Hazleton help you?”
“Oh, no! I did it very easily—I gave him your cloak and cap. You must not be angry, you shall have new ones. They fitted him very nicely. He would run faster, if my heart-strings did not get tangled round his feet, all bleeding, too. Don’t you remember, Miss Thusa told you about it, long ago?”
“My God, Mittie! what makes you talk in that way? Don’t talk so. Don’t look so. For Heaven’s sake, don’t look so wild.”
“I can’t help it, Louis,” said she, pressing her hands on the top of her head, “I feel so strange here. I do believe I’m mad.”
She was indeed delirious. The fever which for many days had been burning in her veins, now lighted its flames in her brain, and raged for more than a week with increasing violence.
She did not know, while she lay tossing in delirious agony, that the fugitive, Clinton, had been overtaken, and brought back in chains to a more hopeless, because doubly guarded captivity.
Justice triumphed over love.
He who sows the wind, must expect to reap the whirlwind.