“Are you afraid to give your names?”
“Is it you, Monsieur Waldo?” said a sweet and trembling voice in reply.
“Margaret!” cried Christian, and throwing open the door, he perceived the young countess, and another young lady whom he had seen at the ball, but whose name he had forgotten, escorted by the faithful Peterson.
“Where are they?” asked Margaret, falling breathless, and almost fainting, upon a chair.
“Who? Of whom are you speaking?” he asked, terrified at her paleness and emotion.
“Major Larrson, the lieutenant, and the other officers,” replied the other young girl, who was quite as much out of breath, and not less agitated than Margaret. “Have they not come?”
“No—were they to have come here?”
“They started from the chateau more than two hours ago.”
“And—you are afraid some accident has happened to them?”
“Yes,” replied Martina Akerstrom, for it was she; “we are afraid—I don’t know what we were afraid of for them, since they started altogether; but—”