Calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then.
For a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place. No one knows where; no one has the right to inquire.
Louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously. There are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea—alone and in silent meditation.
There, nearer to Heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have assailed her upon Earth—the loss of a beloved brother—the fear of losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense—perhaps, a little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name.
Of these three sorrows the second is the strongest. The last but little troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually growing calmer.
But the second—the supreme pain of all—is but strengthened and intensified by time!
She knows that Maurice Gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison—the strong walls of a military guard-house.
It is not their strength that dismays her. On the contrary, she has fears for their weakness!
She has reasons for her apprehension. She has heard of the rumours that are abroad; rumours of sinister significance. She has heard talk of a second trial, under the presidency of Judge Lynch and his rude coadjutors—not the same Judge Lynch who officiated in the Alamo, nor all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the Regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be collected within the bounds of a border settlement—especially when proximate to a military post.
The reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of surprise. Moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be again brought to trial in that irregular way.