She did not answer. Her face was pale as ashes, and her eyes were strained upon the paper.
“What do you see there?” again inquired her husband.
“Oh, Lyon! Lyon! we are lost! we are lost!” she cried in a voice of agony.
In great anxiety he took the paper from her hand, and read the paragraph to which she pointed. It ran thus:
“It is now certain that Sybil Berners, accused of the murder of Rosa Blondelle, is not in Annapolis, as was falsely reported; but that she has escaped in disguise, accompanied by her husband, who is also in disguise; and that both are in the city of Norfolk.”
Now it was Lyon’s turn to grow pallid with fear, not for himself, but for one dearer to him than his own life. Still he tried to control his emotions, or at least to conceal them from her. He compelled himself to answer calmly:
“Take courage, my darling! We are before them. In a few more hours we shall be on board the ship.”
Her hands were clasped tightly together; her eyes were fixed steadily upon his face; her own face was white as marble.
“Oh, Lyon! save me! Oh, my husband, save me! You know that I am guiltless!” she prayed.
“Dearest wife, I will lay down my life for you, if necessary! Be comforted! See! it is now two o’clock! In two more hours we may be on shipboard!” he said.