Daphne lay a dead weight in my arms.
"She has fainted," I whispered to her father; and I bore her far away from the worshippers to the entrance of the cathedral for the cool morning air to revive her.
It is impossible to describe my thoughts as I held her close to me. Once before, on the very morn of her intended wedding, she had been snatched away; and now on a second occasion, when another rival seemed on the point of winning her, and of triumphing over me, events had conspired to destroy all his hopes. Was there not a fatality in this? Was not Destiny reserving Daphne for me alone?
"No one shall ever have you but myself," I murmured, as I gazed on her beautiful face.
An old woman had been slowly following us. She now offered us her assistance.
"Let me see to her," she said, as I laid her at the pedestal of a font near the porch, and, kneeling, sustained her head on my knee. "Poor pretty lady, she will soon come to."
And she proceeded to remove Daphne's hat, and to loosen her cloak and dress.
We waited a few moments, but she lay as still and white as the alabaster font above her.
"Is there no water to be had?" said my uncle, lifting the lid of the baptismal basin and peeping in. "None here. Ah! the holy water at the porch! Good!"