He was as nearly heart-broken, poor fellow, as any youthful lover ever was. His pride was struggling with the sense of disappointment, humiliation and sorrow that seemed to be rushing him into despair. He felt sure that if his capricious but tender bride knew the tithe of his sufferings, she would give herself to him; but not to her pity could he bear to owe his love. He must accept his fate, rather than lose his self-respect; must see her in safety, and then depart.
But how to secure her safety? That was the question that kept him awake so long.
At length, weary mind and body succumbed to sleep.
Then a very strange thing happened.
How long he had slept, he knew not; at what time he awoke, or whether he really did awake, or only dreamt, he never could tell; but it seemed to him that he was gently aroused from a deep and dreamless sleep, by the touch of a soft hand on his face, and the tone of a soft voice in his ear.
“Who is there?” he murmured, only half conscious.
The sweet, low-toned, pathetic voice answered: “It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise, go hence, get to your home. My mother has somewhat to say to you.”
The soft voice, breathing flute-like over him, held his soul in a spell of silence and repose until it ceased.
Then, wondering, he started up as from a dream.
The room was perfectly dark, but he groped his way to the mantelpiece, where he had left the tallow candle and the box of matches, and he struck a light. And still in great agitation, he went to both the chamber doors—the one leading into the hall, and the one leading into the rear room—and examined them. They were both securely locked and bolted as he had left them.