“A pleasant morning to you, Mr Coe,” she said.
“I should thank you for your good wish,” answered the young man; “but, lady, I am a prisoner, I am informed. I have, it seems, been betrayed by those whom I thought my friends. Oh, madam! of all the pains in the world, the greatest is that which is caused by having been betrayed by those in whom we had unlimited faith.”
“There are cases in which that which seems to be treason is friendship in disguise. It was no wish to do you injury which caused you to be taken prisoner; but your friends wished to have you always with them. Had harm been intended towards you, I should not have been left here; it was thought that I might devise ways of making captivity more bearable to you. I fear that this opinion only flattered me.”
John was young, and therefore impressible; he could but feel the spell of so dazzling a presence. What could he do but make such answer as the lady had sought to obtain?
“So much beauty, madam,” he said with empressement, “has power to lessen the pain of the most wretched captivity.”
“You are improving vastly,” said the lady, with a bright and fascinating smile. “We shall, I see, be very good friends, indeed. But the fact that we shall have to pass nearly, if not quite two weeks together, requires that you should have for me some less formal title than ‘madam.’ Call me, hereafter, Ada.”
“You still leave me in doubt, madam. I cannot take the liberty of addressing you familiarly by your Christian name.”
The lady seemed for a moment to be in thought. “Know me then,” she at length said, “as Miss Ada Revere.”
“Your face is strangely familiar to me,” said John.
“You saw me yesterday morning,” answered the lady, with a sad smile, “at the Spout on Saint Leonard’s Creek. You remember the lad who took charge of your and Captain Marston’s notes and horses?”