She looks not like one who has lost her way. There is a sad expression upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. Besides, her horse steps confidently forward, as if under his rider’s direction, and guided by the rein.
Isidora is not straying. She has not lost her way.
Happier for her, if she had.
Chapter Fifty Six.
A Shot at the Devil.
All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm of unconscious passion.
All night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.
They but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon Zeb’s mind: that Louise Poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been murdered!