During this astounding speech the lady had stolen over to David, and sitting by his side, she placed a soft hand tenderly on his head. As the story was being told, her eyes filled with tears, and leaning forward, she kissed the poor boy's pale brow. When it ended she murmured in English, that was even better than that of the "brigand,"—"Poor boy! poor boy! O, Walter, dearest, how I do wish I could speak Bohemian, so as to tell him how sorry I feel!"
And what of David?
What did David think—feel—say?
Nothing. Not a word!
David was paralyzed. He was stunned. He gasped for breath.
And so this was his brigand—the brutal, the beetle-browed, the cruel, the bloody-minded, the inexorable, the demoniac, and all the rest of it! He gasped for breath, as I think I have already remarked; and as the ex-brigand went on with his narrative, David listened in a dazed way, and began to understand that the language of gestures has its little uncertainties. But when the lady kissed him, and when her sweet voice spoke those tender words of pity, he could stand it no longer. His voice came to him. He burst forth,—
"O, how I thank you! O, how good you are! O, what a fool I am!"
And he could say no more.
Not a word more, on my honor.
It was now the turn of the others to be surprised.