CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE READING OF THE DEATH-WARRANT.
Life! life! Oh, Heaven, for this!
To gaze again on God’s bright sun,
To see the moss-marged streamlet run,
To feel the wind’s soft kiss;
To meet loved eyes where pity glows,
To hear kind words to soothe her woes,
Life! life! Oh, bliss of bliss!—Michell.
He remained for a few moments, sitting in silence where she had left him, and then rose with an effort to shake off her influence, murmuring to himself:
“What an incomprehensible creature! a mere girl, not more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, and yet planning, by her own unaided efforts, the rescue of a prisoner from the strong Abbeytown gaol! Is she mad or inspired? If inspired, is it by a good or an evil spirit?—an angel or a devil! If I were a mystic, now, and believed in people being possessed, I should suppose that fragile, excited, half-frenzied girl, to be the medium and agent of some tremendous spirit acting through her. But whether she be mad, sane, or inspired, I will do what I promised, if it afford one chance in a million of saving Eudora. Oh, Eudora! Eudora! as the drowning catch at straws, I catch at this mad girl’s unknown scheme to save you!”