He strode across the room, and laying his hand upon his mother’s shoulder, demanded, thus:
“Tell me where she is, mother. You and these men know; tell me where you have hidden her. Oh, mother! mother! bring not my blood upon your shoulders by concealing her from me, for, as true as there is a God in heaven, if these men, these bloodthirsty hypocrites, whom you, you, mother, have brought here to ruin Hope, harm a hair of her head, I will visit my wrath upon them in a way that shall cause the stoutest heart to faint. Speak, mother, speak, and tell me the worst.”
The mother could not resist this appeal. She sprung forward and fainted in his arms.
There were ejaculations of pity, and cries of shame, and the ordinary tumult sure to ensue when a woman faints, in the midst of all which John Bonyton stood with folded arms. It was sad to see the work of a few hours upon the face of the handsome youth; it had hardened into that inexorable expression which time gives to those who have greatly endured.
“Once more I ask, know you aught of Hope Vines? Speak but one word, mother!”
“I know not where she is, John. For thy sake, I wish it were otherwise.”
Again John Bonyton went forth, and the people turned aside reverently to let him pass, for they saw the great grief upon him. And now he wandered along the pool, for many surmised that the poor child, in her terror, might have perished there.
Thus days and nights passed away, and the unhappy youth traversed the forest, and searched the sea; but found no more traces of Hope Vines.