He took up his hat and went out to walk to the prison.
He was immediately shown to the cell, where he found Eudora, as on the preceding day, reclining on the outside of the bed. Her little dog was coiled up contentedly by her side. Mrs. Barton was on guard. As Malcolm approached and took the little wasted hand she held out to him, he saw she was perceptibly paler, thinner, and feebler than on the day before.
This increasing weakness was evident not only in the emaciation of her face and form, but in the faint tones of her voice and the slow motions of her hands. As he noticed this, the heart of Montrose sank within him.
“And yet,” he thought, “why should I grieve for her waning life? It is better, far better, that she should sink gently into death here—even here in her prison-cell, where her soul might depart in peace and privacy—than live to be dragged forth. Oh, God! oh, God!”
He groaned and buried his face in his hands, as if to shut out the image that arose before his mind’s eye.
Eudora looked up at him uneasily, and with quick sympathy caught his mental vision. She could not have been paler than she had been before. But now her very lips blanched and quivered, and a spasm seized her throat and choked her utterance. This passed in a moment, and then she put up her hand and gently removed those of Malcolm, and looked in his face.
That face was convulsed with anguish; but with a mighty effort, he crushed down his emotions, seated himself by her side, took her hand, and held it in silence, as was often now his custom.
For a few moments neither trusted themselves to speak, but at length Eudora broke the silence by inquiring:
“Do you know why Annella has not been here these two days?”
“The officers of justice believe that her visits disturb you, dear,” answered Malcolm, gently.