Mehal related the circumstances of her struggle with Wanna, of Flora’s descent to the balcony, of her starting off for the shed, and the other particulars which have already been chronicled.
“Answer me one question,” Walter gasped, for his breath came so thick and fast that he could scarcely speak. “Did you tell Miss Meredith of my disguise?”
“No; it did not occur to me to do so.”
“I see it now clear enough,” he continued. “She has been here. The voice I heard was hers. She did not recognise me in this disguise, and fled.”
“I think there can be no doubt that these are the true facts,” Mehal remarked. “And it must have been on leaving the shed that she was recaptured.”
Walter was bowed with grief. He felt that incalculable misery had been brought upon all by one of the merest chances imaginable.
Flora might have been saved; but in the very moment of her extremest peril he had been sleeping; and to that circumstance was due the fact that she was again lost to him. It was a terrible reflection. But useless wailings could avail nothing; action—prompt action—was required.
“Zeemit,” he cried, “at all hazards I will follow Miss Meredith. To rescue her is the mission of my life. I must accomplish it or perish!”
“Were you to follow her, you would most certainly perish. It would be a useless sacrifice of your life, and you would not be able to render her the slightest aid. At a time like this, when the power of your countrymen is set at defiance, and anarchy prevails, stratagem only can succeed. To that we must resort!”