“It is hard to say, with such a terrible report about, and no letters,” faltered the old man, his courage failing him.
“What are you afraid of? Do you think I can't die, and go to him? Alive, or dead?” and she stood before him, raging and quivering in every limb.
The nurse came in.
“Fetch her child,” he cried; “God have mercy on her.”
“Ah, then he is dead,” said she, with stony calmness. “I drove him to sea, and he is dead.”
The nurse rushed in, and held the child to her.
She would not look at it.
“Dead!”
“Yes, our poor Christie is gone—but his child is here—the image of him. Do not forget the mother. Have pity on his child and yours.”
“Take it out of my sight!” she screamed. “Away with it, or I shall murder it, as I have murdered its father. My dear Christie, before all that live! I have killed him. I shall die for him. I shall go to him.” She raved and tore her hair. Servants rushed in. Rosa was carried to her bed, screaming and raving, and her black hair all down on both sides, a piteous sight.