"That would be too long a story for thee to hear now, my child. When thou art stronger I will tell thee all. Rest content with knowing that thou art safe, and with friends who will care for thee as though thou wert their own. Thou must drink this now."
One question more—one on which more than life or strength depended. Willard! Willard! she must ask of him.
Pushing back the proffered drink, which she knew contained some narcotic for sending her asleep, she collected all her energies for the effort and managed faintly to say:
"Was there—did you see the one who—who wounded me?"
"No, my daughter; the assassin had fled, most probably. I saw no one but thee, and made no further search. Now thee must not talk just yet. In two or three days thee will be stronger, and then I will tell thee everything thee wishes to know."
Too weak to resist, and deeply relieved that he had not seen Willard, she quaffed the proffered draught, that brought with it balmy sleep.
During the next two or three days the man was her most zealous nurse, tending her with a zeal, care, and gentle solicitude few nurses could have equaled, but resisting all her efforts to draw him into conversation.
"By and by, daughter. Be patient, and thee will learn all," was ever his firm reply, given, however, in the very gentlest of tones.
Left thus to herself and her own thoughts, as she grew stronger, Christie's mind strove to comprehend and account for the motive that had prompted Willard to commit so dreadful a deed. That it was he she never for a moment thought of doubting. That the act had been premeditated, the note he sent her appointing the meeting, on that lonely spot, at the dead hour of the night, fully proved. But his motive? That, too, she had settled in her own mind. She had heard that he loved Sibyl Campbell before he met her. Now, Sibyl was an heiress, courted and admired by all for her beauty and wealth; what so natural, then, as that he should wish to make this peerless Queen of the Isle his bride? She was the only obstacle that stood in his way; therefore, he had, no doubt, resolved to murder her, to make way for Sibyl. Perhaps, too, he had heard her message to Sibyl, and, guessing its purport, resolved that the secret of this marriage should never go forth.
Long before, she had felt he was tired of her; but she had never before dreamed he wished for her death. Yes, she felt as firmly convinced that it was his hand that struck the blow—she felt as firmly convinced, too, that these were his motives, as she did of her very existence; and yet, in the face of all this, she loved him still. Yes, loved him so well, forgave him so freely, that she resolved he should never know of her existence; she would no longer stand between him and happiness. She would never return to the world she had so nearly quitted; she would fly far away where no one would ever know or hear of her; or she would stay buried here in the depths of the forest with this recluse, whoever he was, if he would permit her.