There was the figure of a lady—graceful, slender, formed in a mould of perfect elegance and loveliness, the dark drapery of her dress descending till it died away among the shadows on the floor. I stared for a moment in surprise. Then the light of the fire, which had subsided for a moment, leaped up, and flashed out upon the exquisite features, and the dark, lustrous, solemn eyes of Marion.
I sprang to my feet, with my heart beating so fast that it seemed impossible to breathe. The surprise was overwhelming. I had thought of her as raving in brain-fever, descending deep down into the abyss of delirium, and now—here she was—here—by my side!—my Lady of the Ice!—Marion!
"I heard that you were here," she said, in a low, tremulous voice, "and I could not help coming down to tell you how I—how I bless you for —for that night."
She stopped—and held out her hand in silence.
I seized it in both of mine. For a few moments I could not speak. At last I burst forth:
"Oh, my God! What bliss it is for me to see you!—I've been thinking about it ever since—I've been afraid that you were ill—that you would never get over it."
And still holding her hand in mine, I raised it with tremulous eagerness, and pressed it to my lips.
She gently withdrew it, but without any appearance of anger.
"No," said she, "I was not ill. A wakeful night, a very feverish excitement—that was all."
"I listened long after you left," said I, in a low voice; "and all was still."