One morning his messmates missed Reginald from his bed. It was cold, and evidently had not been slept in for many hours.
“Well, well,” said Dickson, “perhaps it is best thus, but I doubt not that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by this time all his sorrows are ended for ay.”
But Reginald had had no such intention. While the stars were yet shining, and the beautiful Southern Cross mirrored in the river’s depth, he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the palace.
Ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee Matty. Both were surprised but happy to see him. He took the child in his arms, and as he kissed her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist.
“Dear Matty,” he said, “run out, now; I would speak with Ilda alone.”
Half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, Matty retired obediently enough.
“Oh,” cried Ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, “you are in grief. What can have happened?”
“Do not sit near me, Ilda. Oh, would that the grief would but kill me! The captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me terrible news. I am branded with murder! Accused of slaying my quondam friend and rival in the affections of her about whom I have often spoken to you—Annie Lane.”
Ilda was stricken dumb. She sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of him she loved above all men on earth.
“But—oh, you are not—could not—be guilty! Reginald—my own Reginald!” she cried.