Another week passed away, and in spite of myself I began to hope. If my captivity were to continue until Naomi was wedded to Nick Tresidder, did not my continued imprisonment show that the marriage had not taken place? I remembered Naomi's words. I thought of the look she gave me when she bade me good-bye. Yes, I felt sure she loved me, and that she had refused to wed my enemy! I still fretted and fumed at my imprisonment; I longed with a longing beyond words to be free, but this thought was like a beacon light to a shipwrecked sailor. It gave me strength, too. In spite of everything health surged back into my being.
But my release did not come.
The days began to grow very cold, and I asked for a fire, but none was given me, and my captivity was hard to bear. I think I should have gone mad but for a Bible that had been given me. I read again and again the Book of Job; especially did my mind rest upon his latter days when the sun shone upon him again.
One day the little man, who had told me to call him Jonathan, came into my cell weeping.
"What ails you, Jonathan?" I said.
"Alas!" was his reply.
"What?" I cried eagerly.
"My little Naomi is dead!" he said.
"Your little Naomi—dead!" I repeated, like one dazed. "What do you mean?"
He started as though he had told me too much.