“But what does all this mean? Where are we? What strange place is this?” she cried, throwing back her long dark hair, and shading her eyes with her hands, as she gazed around.
“Dearest wife, take time to compose yourself, and you will remember all. A sudden and terrible catastrophe has driven us from our home. You have had a heavy sleep since that, and you find it difficult to awake to the truth,” said Lyon Berners tenderly, as he sat down by her side, and sought to soothe her.
“Oh! I know now! I remember all now! my fatal fancy ball! Rosa Blondelle’s mysterious murder! Our sudden flight! All! O! Heavens, all!” cried Sybil, dropping her face upon her hands.
Lyon Berners put his arm around her, and drew her to his bosom. But he did not speak; he thought it better to leave her to collect herself in silence.
After a few moments, she looked up again, and looked all around the church, and then gazed into her husband’s eyes, and inquired:
“But Lyon, who was she? and where has she gone?”
“Who was who, dear Sybil? I don’t understand,” answered Mr. Berners, in surprise.
“That gipsy-like girl in the red cloak; who was bending over me, and staring into my face, just as you came in?”
“There was no such girl near you, or even in the church, my dear,” said Mr. Berners.
“But indeed there was; she started away just as I woke up.”