CHAPTER XXIV.
DESPAIR.
She looked how pallid there!
Not starting, sighing, weeping now;
The quiet anguish of her brow
Was written by Despair.
Ah me! despite a governed breast,
Seeming the while in placid rest,
What anguish soul may bear!—Michell.
When Malcolm had been gone a week, and Eudora’s life was almost worn out by the long-drawn anguish of hope deferred, she was sitting in the morning in her cell, in danger of dropping once more into the death-like torpor of despair, when the door was opened by the governor, who announced:
“A friend to see Miss Leaton,” and retired.