“There! There! Read for yourself,” replied the old man, getting up, and handing her the paper. He did not mean that she should read aloud, perhaps—but he forgot—he was confused with trouble.
And she took the paper, and read:—“From the Indian Frontier; HORRIBLE MASSACRE NEAR FORT PROTECTION.—Dispatches from our Western frontier bring the most painful account of a horrible massacre of a part of our troops by the Indians, in the vicinity of Fort Protection. On Monday, the 15th ultimo, a small reconnoitering party left the Fort, under the command of Lieutenant Fairfax. They had proceeded about a mile on their way, when they fell into an ambuscade of Indians, and were cut to pieces in the most shocking manner. The body of Lieutenant Fairfax, in particular, was so horribly mutilated as to be scarcely recognizable. The full particulars of the massacre, given below, are copied from the ‘National Sentinel.’”
Then followed a long account of the catastrophe, with every revolting circumstance detailed with horrid distinctness. The old man heard and groaned at intervals. Carolyn shuddered and wept by turns. And even Georgia’s voice broke down for pity and horror. But she—the wife—the widow—she—the fearfully bereaved—she sat and listened to all the murderous story. She heard all—all. How he had been set upon by six or seven—how he had singly battled with them, when all his party were lying dead around him—how then he tried to escape such fearful odds—how he was felled, and dragged down from his horse—the young, warm beating heart was cloven through—the fair hair torn from the bleeding skull—the fingers chopped off for the sake of the ring—Frank wore but one—a simple gold ring, with a coral set, that she had taken from her slender fore finger, and contrived to squeeze past the joint, and get it comfortably upon his little finger. And they had cut it off in their haste to get it. How real that trifle made the whole horror, that might else have seemed like a nightmare! She sat and heard it all—all. And no motion, no tear, no cry escaped her.
At last, when the reading was over, and they were released from the spell of horror, old Mr. Clifton thought of Zuleime, and feared its effect on her. He turned to look at her. At first he saw nothing amiss.
She sat so naturally, though still, with her knitting in her hands, as though only stopped for an instant, and her face turned in a listening attitude toward Georgia, who had ceased to read.
“It is all over—there is no more to hear, Zuleime, my darling,” said the old man.
But she did not move or speak. She seemed to look and listen intently.
“Zuleime,” said her father gently.
She remained perfectly still.
“Zuleime!” he exclaimed, in a louder tone. She did not hear.