Fleet-footed she drew near, and as she approached a long bitter sigh broke from Isabel and, following it, low-toned entreaties that pierced her anew with the utter abandonment of their supplication.
"Oh God," she prayed brokenly. "I am so tired—so tired—of waiting. Open the door for me! Let me out of my prison! Let me find my beloved in the dawning—in the dawning!"
Her voice sank, went into piteous sobbing. She crouched lower in the depth of her woe.
Dinah stooped over her with a little crooning murmur of pity, and gathered her close in her arms.
Isabel gave a great start. "Child!" she said, and then she clasped Dinah to her, leaning her face against her bosom.
Dinah was crying softly, but she saw that Isabel had no tears. That sobbing came from her broken heart, but it brought no relief. The dark eyes burned with a misery that found no vent, save possibly in the passionate holding of her arms.
"My darling," she whispered presently, "did I wake you?"
"No, dearest, no!" Dinah was tenderly caressing the snowy hair; she spoke with an almost motherly fondness. "I happened to be awake, and I heard you at the window."
"Why were you awake, darling? Aren't you happy?"
Quick anxiety was in the words. Dinah flushed with a sense of guilt.