“Oh, dear, dear! what can I say to you? Can’t you still trust in God?” sighed the woman.
No, Eudora could not. Innocent, yet condemned, she felt her faith in God and man utterly fail; and lacking this support in her hour of extremity, she sank beneath her weight of affliction; and as soon as she was dressed and out of the hands of Mrs. Barton, she fell again upon the bed, and buried her head in the pillow.
Her breakfast was brought her by another turnkey, and Mrs. Barton took it from his hand and set it on the little table, while she entreated the prisoner to rise up and try to partake of it. And Eudora, in the perfect docility of her spirit, sat up on the side of the bed, and took the cup of coffee in her hand and attempted to drink it, but in vain; and then, with a deprecating look she handed the cup back to Mrs. Barton, and sank down upon the bed. The good woman saw that she could not swallow, and so she sent the untasted breakfast away.
A few minutes after this, Malcolm Montrose, attended by the governor of the gaol, came to the cell. Mr. Anderson left him at the door, and retired to a short distance in the lobby.
Malcolm had forced himself into a state of composure, and nothing but the deadly paleness of his face betrayed his inward anguish.
When he entered the cell Eudora was still lying on the outside of the bed, with her face buried in the pillow, while the female turnkey stood by her side.
“How is she?” breathed the visitor, in the hushed tones of deep woe.
“Oh, sir, she has not uttered one word, or swallowed one morsel since her conviction. Speak to her, sir; perhaps she will answer you,” said Mrs. Barton.
“Do you speak to her; tell her that I am here,” requested Malcolm, in a faltering voice, as he struggled to retain an outward composure.
The woman bent over the stricken girl, and whispered: