CHAPTER XXIV.
Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips; but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
—Gertrude of Wyoming.
The brief arrangements of the dragoons had prepared two apartments for the reception of the ladies, the one being intended as a sleeping room, and situated within the other. Into the latter Isabella was immediately conveyed, at her own request, and placed on a rude bed by the side of the unconscious Sarah. When Miss Peyton and Frances flew to her assistance, they found her with a smile on her pallid lip, and a composure in her countenance, that induced them to think her uninjured.
“God be praised!” exclaimed the trembling aunt. “The report of firearms, and your fall, had led me into error. Surely, surely, there was enough horror before; but this has been spared us.”
Isabella pressed her hand upon her bosom, still smiling, but with a ghastliness that curdled the blood of Frances.
“Is George far distant?” she asked. “Let him know—hasten him, that I may see my brother once again.”
“It is as I apprehended!” shrieked Miss Peyton. “But you smile—surely you are not hurt!”
“Quite well—quite happy,” murmured Isabella; “here is a remedy for every pain.”
Sarah arose from the reclining posture she had taken, and gazed wildly at her companion. She stretched forth her own hand, and raised that of Isabella from her bosom. It was dyed in blood.