"Sibyl! Sibyl! my dearest love!" he said, in alarm, "what is it?"
"Nothing—nothing," she answered, in a tremulous voice; "but, oh, Willard! do you believe the prediction?"
"Strange, wild girl that you are! has this idle talk frightened you so?" he said, smiling at her wild, dilated eyes.
"If it should prove true," she said, covering her face with a shudder. "Willard, tell me—do you believe it?"
"My dark-eyed darling, how can I tell whether to believe it or not? It has not come true, and there seems no likelihood of its ever doing so. Do not think of it any more; if I had thought it would have unnerved you so, I would never have told you."
"But, Willard, did any of his other predictions prove true?"
"I would rather not answer that question, Sibyl," he said, while a cloud darkened for a moment his fine face.
"You must tell me," she cried, starting up, and looking at him with her large, lustrous eyes.
"Well, then—yes," said Drummond, reluctantly. "Young Vaughn, one of those who accompanied me, saw a funeral procession, and himself robed for the grave lying in the coffin. Five weeks after, he was accidentally shot."
She put up her arm in a vague, wild sort of way, as if to ward off some approaching danger.