While arising from her reclining position she felt something in her hand—it was a small piece of paper carelessly folded.
Opening it hastily, she with difficulty managed to decipher from the rude, scrawling characters, the following significant warning:
“Be watchful—a friend is near.”
Startled beyond measure by the contents of this anonymous note, she was obliged to read it over repeatedly before she could fairly realize its import.
In vain did she strive to give herself a satisfactory answer as to who this unknown friend could be. Of such a person sufficiently near to be of service to her, she knew not.
This inspiring news, vague though it was, revived her drooping spirits. Pressing the billet fervently to her lips, she placed it safely in her bosom, as though it were a gem of the richest order.
The nearly extinct sparks of hope that lay dormant within her breast, were again enkindled into a flame. Oh, how slowly the hours, which to her seemed like years, glided by, as in a state of feverish excitement, she anxiously awaited the arrival of that promised assistance which came not.
Night was fast approaching; the evening of that day on which the Tory chieftain had threatened to visit her, to receive her final answer. Imogene sat musing, trying to picture to herself the result of the terrible drama in which she was acting so conspicuous, but yet so unwilling a part.
“Perhaps her new-found friend had been detected in his gallant attempts to aid her, and was now suffering the penalty of his generosity?” she thought.
While thus battling with her despondent feelings, she was startled by hearing a gentle, catlike footstep on the floor. Starting back half-affrighted, she beheld approaching her the bearer of the mysterious note.