She was quite a young girl, with a delicate, slender frame, and features of extreme loveliness. Her complexion was singularly colorless. Her eyes were large, dark, and luminous. Her hair fell in rich masses over her shoulders. In one hand she held a knife, to which she clung with a death-like tenacity.
“Poor child!” murmured Brandon, in accents of tenderest commiseration. “It is but little that you could do with that knife.”
She looked up at him as she knelt, then looked at the keen glittering steel, and, with a solemnity of accent which showed how deeply she was in earnest, murmured, half to herself,
“It could at least have saved me!”
Brandon smiled upon her with such a smile as a father might give at seeing the spirit or prowess of some idolized son.
“There is no need,” he said, with a voice of deep feeling, “there is no need of that now. You are saved. You are avenged. Come with me.” The girl rose. “But wait,” said Brandon, and he looked at her earnestly and most pityingly. “There are things here which you should not see. Will you shut your eyes and let me lead you?”
“I can bear it,” said the girl. “I will not shut my eyes.”
“You must,” said Brandon, firmly, but still pityingly, for he thought of that venerable woman who lay in blood outside the door. The girl looked at him and seemed at first as though about to refuse. There was something in his face so full of compassion, and entreaty, and calm control, that she consented. She closed her eyes and held out her hand. Brandon took it and led her through the place of horror and up to the deck.
Her appearance was greeted with a cry of joy from all the sailors. The girl looked around. She saw the Malays lying dead upon the deck. She saw the ship that had rescued, and the proa that had terrified her. But she saw no familiar face.
She turned to Brandon with a face of horror, and with white lips asked: