“It is in vain,” said Henry, drawing him aside; “Frances clings to hope with the fondness of a sister. Retire, my love, and leave me with my friend.”
But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained her to the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued:
“He stayed with us for a few days; he was with us when Henry was arrested.”
“And—and—did you know him?”
“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed the intense interest of her lover, “we knew him not; he came to us in the night, a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but he seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship.”
“What!” exclaimed the youth, in astonishment; “did he know your brother?”
“Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise.”
“But,” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, “he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?”
“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and he cautioned us against this very danger.”
Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that lay where it had fallen from his own hands, and studied its characters intently. Something seemed to bewilder his brain. He passed his hand over his forehead, while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense—all feeling afraid to admit those hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.