“So! this is well!” exclaimed the prince, with great animation, as he threw his quick eye over the letter. “As I hoped and deemed, a most complete victory. Karam Bey himself a prisoner, baggage, standards, great guns, treasure. Brave soldier of the Cross! (may I prove so!) Your perfectly-devised movement, (poh, poh!) Hah! what is this?” exclaimed Iskander, turning pale; his lip quivered, his eye looked dim. He walked to an arched window. His companion, who supposed that he was reading, did not disturb him.
“Poor, poor Hunniades!” at length exclaimed Iskander, shaking his head.
“What of him?” inquired Nicæus, quickly.
“The sharpest accident of war!” replied Iskander. “It quite clouds my spirit. We must forget these things, we must forget. Epirus! he is not a patriot who can spare a thought from thee. And yet, so young, so beautiful, so gifted, so worthy of a hero! when I saw her by her great father’s side, sharing his toils, aiding his councils, supplying his necessities, methought I gazed upon a ministering angel! upon—”
“Stop, stop in mercy’s name, Iskander!” exclaimed Nicæus, in a very agitated tone. “What is all this? Surely no, surely not, surely Iduna—”
“‘Tis she!”
“Dead?” exclaimed Nicæus, rushing up to his companion, and seizing his arm.
“Worse, much worse!”
“God of Heaven!” exclaimed the young Prince, with almost a frantic air. “Tell me all, tell me all! This suspense fires my brain. Iskander, you know not what this woman is to me; the sole object of my being, the bane, the blessing of my life! Speak, dear friend, speak! I beseech you! Where is Iduna?”
“A prisoner to the Turk.”