“They see that scene of massacre—they see the death of her lover,” said Kate, looking piteously at her friend—(for Zuleime was her friend)—and brooding deeply over some idea.
“The doctor says she must die if she cannot be made to weep! Oh, Katey, my dear, dear girl! If you can only make her weep! I will give you—I was going to say—I would give you half of all I have in the world! Come, try! That’s a good girl! You girls all know each other’s little fool-secrets and love nonsenses. Come, try. Do you want to be left alone with her?”
Kate shook her head in that quick way usual to her when strong feeling kept her silent—but she added—
“Give me her keys.”
The old man seemed surprised, but looked about and discovered the required articles in her little work-basket, and handed them to Kate.
“I only want to search and see if I cannot find something that was his—some little token or keepsake, you know.”
The old man took his station at the foot of the bed, while Kate pursued her search. She knew what she was looking for, it was a curl of fair hair. She had caught a glimpse of it once—when Zuleime had opened a box in her drawer, and had immediately shut it again with a deep blush. And now she knew whose hair it was; and that the sight of it would bring tears to those burning eye-balls, and consciousness to that frenzied brain. She found it. She could have wept herself as she raised it from its little hiding place. She took it to the bedside—put her hand gently over those glaring eyes to darken them, and break the spell if possible, and then lifting her hand off again, she held up the lock of hair by the end, letting it drop into a fair shining ringlet before the eyes of the girl, as she said—
“Zuleime, do you know whose hair this is?”
The poor scathed eye-balls fixed upon it—softened—melted from their searching glare—a change came over her face—she extended her hand, and caught the tress as if fearing to lose it, and pressed it with both hands to her heart. Then her bosom began to heave convulsively, as with a great coming agony. Catherine caught her up, for she seemed about to suffocate. It was only the coming of the flood of tears—yes, the flood, for she fell upon Catherine’s sustaining bosom, and sobbed and wept—such a deluge of tears, that the girl’s dress was dripping wet, and it grew a wonder where so much came from. And Catherine’s heart was smitten, and she wept, too—wept till she grew so weak she could scarcely sustain her burthen. And then old Mr. Clifton came around and relieved her, taking Zuleime into his arms and laying her head against his shoulder, saying—
“There, cry! Cry on its father’s neck, as much as it wants to! It shall cry its fill, poor thing! poor little heart-broken thing!”