It required no scrutiny to tell who he was—at least on the part of Marion Wade. A single glance had been sufficient for the recognition of Henry Holtspur.
The long look she gave was scarce one of inquiry. Its object was not to identify the prisoner. It was not directed either upon his figure, or his face; but upon a spray of withered red blossoms that hung drooping over the brim of his beaver.
The look of chagrin with which this token was regarded by Marion Wade, changed to one of absolute anguish—as her eye fell upon the brown but beautiful face of a young girl, seen standing in the background, and whose crimson cloak, and gipsy features, proclaimed her the daughter of Dancey, the deer-stealer!
Marion Wade receded from the window with as much suddenness, as when, some hours before, her modesty had taken alarm at the exposing flash of the electric light.
Far different, however, was the fashion of her retreat. She fell fainting upon the floor!
With such a shaft rankling in her bosom, no wonder that Marion Wade had now no inclination for sleep, and showed no signs of an intention to retire to her couch.
On the contrary, she was equipped as for a journey—at all events, as if she intended going forth into the open air. A dark velvet cloak of large dimensions completely shrouded her figure; while her head was enveloped in a hood, which, by means of its draw-string, almost concealed her face—at the same time covering those luxuriant locks, like streams of molten gold, that gave a sort of divine character to her countenance.
Had her face been seen at that moment, it would have appeared pale—that is, paler than its wont: for the cheeks of Marion Wade could never have shown colourless. Even in death one might have fancied they would preserve that luminous roseate hue; which, like a halo, seemed constantly suspended over her countenance.
Her eyes more truthfully told the tale. They were swollen, and scarce dried of recent tears. Only one had seen them fall. Only one—her cousin Lora—knew why Marion Wade had been weeping. She had kept her chamber all the day, with Lora as her companion; but long before midnight, the latter had been desired to withdraw, and leave her alone. Lora had not been made the confidant of all her secrets. There was one she had reserved.
All day had she been thinking over the spectacle of the morning. The man she loved—worshipped with all the warm wild fervour of her maiden heart—that man a prisoner in the power of a cruel and vindictive enemy; paraded before all the world—before herself—as a criminal; rudely dragged along by a guard of ruffianly soldiers; disgraced—no, not disgraced, for such treatment could not bring disgrace upon a noble patriot; but in danger of his life!