“Let us go, my dear,” said Mrs. Rowel. “You cannot bear it. James, why do you talk so?”
“I will not go!” cried Fanny eagerly, and struggling hard to rally herself “Tell me your name—your name!” added she, addressing the captive.
“Woodruff!” cried the poor prisoner.
Fanny's glazed eyes were fixed on him for an instant,—she sprung forwards with a shriek, and fell at full length on the ground, and as though dead, at his feet!
Mrs. Rowel and the unfortunate James Woodruff stood equally astonished. The latter attempted to raise Fanny: he could not—his arms were bound—and he laughed. But the next instant, as he requested the mistress of the mansion to do so, he stooped over the insensible body before him, and burst into a flood of tears.
“Who is she?” he demanded. “What soul of beauty is it?”
“I do not know, James,” replied the lady; “she is a stranger to me.”
“Would that I could touch her cheek with my finger!” said Woodruff. “She is good—good indeed!”
In the mean time Robson had answered the call of Mrs. Rowel, and come to her assistance.
“Carry her into the house. Or, stay, fetch water,” said she; “she had better be recovered here,” and Robson was accordingly despatched for a glass of water, with which he soon returned. It was applied to her lips, and partially sprinkled on her forehead.