He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life—
She paused again—again essayed to sing—her voice quavering, sunk into silence like the rudely-swept strings of the harpsichord—the grayness of death crept over her countenance, and she fell back into the arms of her father, who angrily exclaimed—
“Charles! you are a brute! a demon! to ask her to sing that song. Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!”
He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The ladies drew around with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn. But she recovered very soon, and sat up—and declined going up stairs to bed—and thanked them all for their care, gently begging them not to take so much trouble on her account.
“This is all very strange, madam,” said Mrs. Cabell, aside to Mrs. Clifton.
“Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn’s illness, that the news of that massacre, and the death of her old playmate and companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I suppose this music awoke her sensibilities,” said Georgia, composedly.
If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the truth, she was too well bred to express it then and there. And the matter ended for the moment.
But after this evening, Zuleime was never the same. Her fortitude seemed entirely to have given away. Her calmness was utterly broken up. A strange, wild terror and incertitude had come upon her.
The next day, Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to call on the visitors. Nevertheless, in the course of the call, Major Cabell found the opportunity he sought, of taking Zuleime to task for what he called her miserable weakness.