“But in all, and through all, my heart, dear wife, was loyal in its love to you,” he concluded.
“I know that, dearest Lyon—I know that well,” replied Sybil.
And with that tenderness towards the faults of the dead, which all magnanimous natures share, she forbore to say, or even to think, how utterly unprincipled had been the course of Rosa Blondelle from the first to the last of their acquaintance with that vain and frivolous coquette.
Sybil was now almost sinking with weariness. Lyon perceived her condition, and said:
“Remain here, dear Sybil, while I go and try to collect some boughs and leaves to make you a couch. The sun must have dried up the moisture by this time.”
And he went out and soon returned with his arms full of boughs, which he spread upon the flagstones. Then he took off his own overcoat and covered them with it.
“Now, dear Sybil,” he said, “if you will divest yourself of your long riding skirt, you may turn that into a blanket to cover with, and so sleep quite comfortably.”
With a grave smile Sybil followed his advice, and then she laid herself down on the rude couch he had spread for her. No sooner had her head touched it, than she sank into that deep sleep of prostration which is more like a swoon than a slumber.
Lyon Berners covered her carefully with the long riding skirt, and stood watching her for some minutes. But she neither spoke nor stirred; indeed, she scarcely breathed.
Then, after still more carefully tucking the covering around her, he left her, and walked out to explore the surroundings of the chapel.