And a fancy it was. Could his eye at that moment have pierced the massive walls, mentioned in his soliloquy, he might have discovered how unjust—how groundless—were his hypothetical accusations. He would have seen Marion Wade a sufferer like himself—suffering from almost a similar cause.
She was in her sleeping chamber, and alone. She had been there for hours; but still her couch remained unpressed. The silken coverlet lay smoothly over the pillow of down, without any sign of having been upturned. Nor was there in her attitude aught that would indicate an intention of retiring to that luxurious place of repose.
On the night before, in the same chamber, had she been equally the victim of unrest—though not to the same degree. Then had she been only apprehensive of danger to her lover, but still undisturbed by a doubt of his fidelity. Now the danger had descended—the doubt had arisen. Then her apprehensions had been relieved; and she had fallen into a slumber—so profound, that the hoof-strokes of a single horse—heard, half an hour afterwards, passing over the same path traversed by Scarthe and his subaltern—did not awake her. Neither had the trampling of thirty steeds, ridden by the same number of steel-clad cuirassiers—with tinkling spurs and clinking sabres—as several hours after they filed under the casement of her chamber, taking their departure from the park.
It was after daybreak on that morning when Marion Wade awoke from a prolonged slumber. Then only on hearing noises without, that might have aroused even the heaviest sleeper: the braying of a bugle—the quick word of command loudly pronounced—the shrill neighing of horses—in short, all those sounds that indicate the proximity of a cohort of cavalry.
Marion sprang from her couch—her cousin close following her example.
They stood trembling in the middle of the room. Modesty forbade a nearer approach to the window; while curiosity—and in the mind of Marion a far stronger sentiment—urged them towards it.
Only for an instant had she hesitated. The presentiment was upon her—then more impressive than ever. She could not resist it; and, snatching the first garment that came within reach—a scarf it chanced to be—she threw it over her shoulders, already enrobed in her ample chevelure of golden hair; and silently glided into the embayment of the window.
Not long stayed she there. The terrible tableau, that came under her eyes, prevented her from protracting that daring reconnoissance.
A squadron of cuirassiers, formed in line, with the heads of their horses turned towards the window—on the right flank, their captain, Richard Scarthe—on the left, his subaltern, Stubbs—this was the spectacle presented to her view.
In the centre—and there alone had dwelt the glance of Marion Wade—was a man mounted upon a coal-black horse—conspicuous above all the rest for noble mien, and proud bearing—but, alas! conspicuous also as a prisoner.