“Well, what is the matter?” she said, curtly.
“Oh, grandmother! you must get up!” cried Erminie, in strong agitation. “There is a man down-stairs wishes to see you.”
“A man wishing to see me? What do you mean?” asked the gipsy, knitting her dark brows.
“Oh, grandmother! there is news of—of—your son.”
“My son! are you going mad, girl?” cried Ketura, getting up on her elbows unassisted, for the first time in years; and glaring upon her with her hollow, lurid eyes.
“Oh, grandmother! grandmother! we were deceived—you were deceived—Ray says he was not drowned.”
“Not drowned!” She passed her hand over her face with a bewildered look.
“No; it was a false report. He lives!”
With a sharp, wild cry—a strange, eerie cry, breaking the dead silence of the night, the woman Ketura strove to rise. The effort was a failure. She fell back, while every feature was distorted with wildest agony.
“Girl! girl! what have you said?” she cried out. “Did you say my son—my Reginald—lives?”