Ah, true! But she was something more.
And now, as he looked at her thus lying in his arms, there came to him the thought of all that she had been to him--the thought of her undying love--her matchless devotion. That pale face, those closed eyes, those mute lips, that beautiful head, stained with oozing blood, all spoke to him with an eloquence which awakened a response within him.
Was this the end of all that love and that devotion? Was this the fulfillment of his promise to General Pomeroy? Was he doing by this woman as she had done by him? Had she not made more than the fullest atonement for the offenses and follies of the past? Had she not followed him through Europe to seek him and to snatch him from the grasp of a villain? Had she not saved his life at the risk of her own? Had she not stood by his side till she fell lifeless at his feet in her unparalleled self-devotion?
These were the questions that came to him.
He loved her not; but if he wished for love, could he ever find any equal to this? That poor, frail, slender frame pleaded piteously; that white face, as it lay upturned, was itself a prayer.
Involuntarily he stooped down, and in his deep pity he pressed his lips to that icy brow. Then once more he looked at her. Once more he touched her, and this time his lips met hers.
"My God!" he groaned; "what can I do? Why did I ever see--that other one?"
An hour passed and the driver returned. Four men came with him, carrying a rude litter. On this Hilda's senseless form was placed. And thus they carried her to the nearest house, while Lord Chetwynde followed in silence and in deep thought.
CHAPTER LX.
THE CLAWS OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE.